


That true witches were never to be found

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Adoption, Banishment, Blood Magic, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dark Magic, Episode: s02e02 The Friendship Trap, F/F, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Gen, M/M, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Potions Masters, Wandless Magic, War, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: When Mildred Hubble finds herself banished from Cackle's Academy by a scheming Ethel Hallow, rid of the Friendship Trap, she ends up in an all new magical world - one she doesn't recognise, even though she's barely part of the one she belongs to herself;Harry Potter is sixteen years old with the weight of the world on his shoulders and when Mildred Hubble begins to spin things in a new direction, he finds himself drawn into new possibilities and a new future;and Hecate Hardbroom is going to find a way to bring Mildred Hubble home, even it means crossing the boundaries of the universe and back to do it.





	1. Chapter 1

They traipse through the corridor, pushing and pulling – or rather, Ethel pushes and pulls and Mildred just gets dragged along. The friendship trap is horrible and it’s only been active for an hour.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” Mildred questions as they go down a narrow corridor. “I don’t think this is the way to the art classroom.”

“It’s a short-cut,” Ethel says, before they go down a tiny spiral staircase. Mildred nearly trips over her own feet, wobbling dangerously even as Ethel pulls her down faster and faster.

“Ethel, slow down,” Mildred struggles, heart beating in her ears as she becomes frightened, the stairs going on forever and ever and Ethel _not slowing down_ so she can regain her balance. “Ethel, I’m going to fall!”

Ethel harrumphs, but stops, Mildred nearly falling forwards before she grabs the rope around the centre column. Catching her breath, she makes her way down slower, Ethel thankfully keeping to Mildred’s pace, up until they exit the stairwell. The corridor is brightly lit and for a moment, Ethel imagines Ethel’s short-cut worked, but then Ethel drags her over to a door that says _No Students Allowed._

“What’s that? Where are we going?” Mildred demands, tugging Ethel back – but Ethel is stronger and far more stubborn. She opens the door, pulling Mildred in with her. Immediately, Mildred feels cold, like she’s outside in the snow. The room is dark, but in the middle of the room, Mildred can see a stone podium, a snow globe glowing dimly, illuminating the room in soft blue. “What is that?”

“It’s a Wishing Globe,” Ethel pronounces, manoeuvring them so they stand side-by-side in front of it. “We simply put our hands on it and say ‘I wish we weren’t bound by any magic at all’.”

“And that’s it?” Mildred questions, sceptical, “It just…goes away?”

“It just goes away,” Ethel confirms, “But we have to be very specific. Wishing Globe’s are worse than genies, sometimes. My father told me about this one – he said my Aunt Morwyn once wished to be the prettiest girl in the school and it banished half the pupils to the boundaries of Cackle’s.”

“Oh. Right…okay, then. So we say ‘I wish we weren’t bound by magic?”

“Bound _by any magic at all_ ,” Ethel corrects harshly and Mildred nods quickly, hoping she doesn’t mess this up, repeating the sentence over and over in her head. Ethel raises their bound arms, hands hovering over the Globe. “On three. One, two, _three._ ”

They lower their hands, the Globe’s blue light turning indigo. They speak in time.

“ _I wish we weren’t bound by any magic at all._ ”

The cold in the room shifts, a soft wind blowing before their arms detach, the Globe turning a soft green. Mildred laughs, unable to believe that it worked. She turns to Ethel, who smirks superiorly at the Globe.

“It worked!”

“Nearly,” Ethel says, looking to her just as the wind picks up. “You’re so stupid, you know. Wishing Globe’s sense intentions and your thoughts, too. Now I won’t have to deal with you ever again.”

Mildred’s heart drops to her stomach. “What?”

“Good luck wherever the Globe sends you, Mildred – because it won’t be here,” Ethel says and then Mildred hears a big ripping sound, like pulling a tear through your jeans. Then, it’s like something’s yanking her from around her navel and she’s sucked back through a fiery green portal. Ethel watches her with a victorious grin as Mildred goes skidding across a stone floor, the portal closing without another sound.

“No!” Mildred shouts, angry at Ethel and then scared as she looks around and sees unfamiliar hallways. She’s in a castle corridor, but the ceilings are high and arched and the hallway wide, enough for eight men abreast. It’s _definitely_ not Cackle’s. Getting to her feet, Mildred twists and turns, before calling out in a tremulous voice. “Hello?”

Her call echoes through the corridor, but no-one answers. Mildred swallows, the silence rankling. Going to the nearby window, Mildred looks outside, trying to see if she recognises anything. Outside there are tall, tree-covered mountains and a large, long lake that glitters in the sunlight. Off to one side, she can see a boathouse and then further, nearly out of sight, she can see _people_ – people swimming in the lake and sunbathing on the grass and at the base of trees.

“Now _that_ is an unusual uniform.”

Mildred jumps, twisting to see the owner of the voice, eyes blowing wide at the sight of the ghost. A portly fellow in life, the ghost looks like a monk or a priest, dressed in a robe with a balding head. He tilts his head at her surprise.

“Are you lost, child?”

“I- I was banished,” Mildred breathes out the words, shocked at seeing the spirit, “Ethel sent me away. I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh, poor dear,” the monk floats closer, sinking into the floor a little as he comes down to her level. “I am Friar Rogers, though students have called me the Fat Friar in centuries past.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “What might your name be, young one?”

Mildred finds that her eyes are stinging and she blinks away her tears as she answers, stuttering. “M-M-Mildred, Friar Rogers, Mil-Mildred Hubble. I’m from Cackle’s Academy.”

“Cackle’s Academy? Why, I’ve never heard of a Cackle’s, before,” Friar Rogers says, voice soft. “This castle hosts Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Follow me, now and I’ll take you to see the Headmaster – or the Deputy Headmistress, if she’s about. Lovely woman, Minerva, lovely woman…come along, Miss Hubble.”

Friar Rogers floats upwards again, feet trailing a few inches above the floor. Mildred forces her feet to move, following him down the corridor and around a corner. Her eyes dart to the numerous canvases and portraits on the walls, full of moving people who whisper to each other. Half a dozen ladies playing cards in one wide canvas and in another, a little boy with curly brown hair peers at her closely as he can from the scaffolding outside a beautiful mosque.

The castle is _huge,_ Mildred realises when they come to a tall, tall space full of moving staircases. The staircase she goes down starts to move as she nears the middle and the Friar calls out for her to hold on as it turns in mid-air to a new destination. Mildred finds herself looking down into the chasm-like space where what seems like a hundred staircases drift from door to door, holding onto the stone banister like a lifeline.

“Watch the trip step!” Friar Rogers warns when it stops and she hurries downwards, “I can’t help you if your leg falls through!”

“If my leg falls through?” Mildred looks at the steps in terror, swallowing as she catches sight of one step that’s paler than the others, two from the next landing. Careful to avoid it, Mildred makes it to the other end – the Friar muttering to himself happily about the castle being helpful. Mildred doesn’t know how a castle can be helpful, but by the time the Friar has led her to another exit into Staircase Hell, a school bell has rung and Mildred sees dozens of students pouring out of different doors – most below but some above.

“Lunchtime,” Friar Rogers chuckles, rubbing his transparent belly. “Ah, to be amongst the living. Come now – we can take an internal staircase up to the seventh floor and if the Headmaster has joined the students for lunch, we can always summon a house-elf to collect him. In truth, if you really did appear in Hogwarts via banishment, the school wards should have alerted the Headmaster to your predicament anyway.”

“Right,” Mildred says softly, following the ghost through into a sunlit corridor again, stopping when the ghost goes through a tapestry where, obviously, she can’t follow. _He’s a ghost,_ Mildred thinks, even if the abandonment stings, _he probably didn’t realise._

But then Friar Rogers’ head slips through the tapestry again, “Come on, Miss Hubble. This was my favourite secret passageway as a boy – no-one uses the classrooms on this floor anymore, but there used to be quite the amount of traffic up and down this staircase, people getting sent to the Headmaster daily.”

“A secret passageway?” Mildred questions in disbelief, stepping forwards and pushing the tapestry aside a little, surprised to find a door, the Friar disappearing through once more. Slipping behind the heavy green and gold depicting some kind of battle, Mildred opens the door, the creaking making her wince. Inside, a dusty staircase much like the one Ethel dragged her down leads both up and down.

“Up we go,” Friar Rogers says cheerily. Mildred holds the door – and the tapestry – open for a little longer, though, noticing the lack of lights for her to turn on with a snap of her fingers. “Scared of the dark, little one? A trusty _lumos_ will light the way – children often do them as toddlers!”

“I’ve never heard of a _lumos_ spell before,” Mildred says, but lets the door and tapestry close with another creak and a soft _thump_. Shutting her eyes and holding her hands cupped in front of her, she imagines a ball of light in her hand that would float up in front of her, lighting the way as the Friar said it would. “ _Lumos._ ”

Mildred feels a jolt in her magic, then, strange and funny – but the light appears and rather than draining her like normal spells, the flow of magic stops near-instantaneously. The Friar gasps.

“Wandless magic? Such power!”

 _Wandless?_ Mildred frowns, then supposes that maybe the Friar was a wizard in life. _Well, he did say he was a student here, when he was alive. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…a co-ed school, like Miss Pentangle’s. Maybe wizards used wands rather than staffs, before._

“Upstairs?” Mildred prompts, the Friar snapping out of his shock to nod, floating straight upwards. Mildred hurries to follow, checking her laces – done up tightly, thankfully, with no stray ends – before running up after him, ball of light staying a few feet ahead of her at all times.

When she reaches the Friar, Mildred accidentally runs through him, feeling as if a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over her head. Shivering, feeling icky, Mildred mumbles an apology, Friar Rogers waving her off before motioning to the new door.

“Be careful, it’s behind another tapestry,” he warns. Mildred nods, before opening the door outwards, pushing against the heavy fabric on the other side, slipping out with her _lumos_ light.

“Out,” she waves her hand over the ball, frowning when it stays, stationary in the air. She looks to the Friar. “Is there a special word to turn it off? Usually that works with other things.”

“The anathema to _lumos_ is _nox._ ” Friar Rogers informs her, before adding, “Though, it is also the anathema to _lumos maxima_.”

“Is…is that Latin?” Mildred blinks, having a sudden realisation. “This is different magic! So, using Latin magic means using Latin magic to reverse the effects, too?”

Friar Rogers looks puzzled, “Well, yes. The Wizarding World was rather taken with Latin spells, after speaking it went out of fashion. Meant you didn’t accidentally blow someone up while having an argument. That was somewhat before my time, though, several hundred years, in fact. Is this not familiar to you?”

“Not really,” Mildred says, before catching sight of a griffin statue down the corridor. The Friar follows her gaze, twisting around.

“The Headmaster’s Office,” Friar Rogers says, floating forwards. Mildred follows him along, stopping in front of the hulking statue. “My dear fellow, is Albus in?”

“… _he’s got a visitor,_ ” the statue says after a long moment. “ _I’m not supposed to talk in front of students._ ”

“I’m not a student here, don’t worry,” Mildred assures. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“ _…thank-you,_ ” the griffin says. “ _I’ve told him you’re here. Fat Friar, go up and say hello._ ”

“Of course, of course – I won’t be a moment, Miss Hubble.” Friar Rogers says, before floating up through the ceiling. Mildred watches him go, scuffing her feet on the floor.

“Is the Headmaster nice?” she asks the griffin.

“ _Yes. He is kind and has a horrible sense of fashion. It burns my eyes and I’m a rock._ ”

Mildred giggles, looking left when she hears a set of shoes. A young man makes his way down the corridor, slowing at the sight of her. With oily hair and a hooked nose, wearing all black, Mildred has to wonder for a moment if he’s related to Miss Hardbroom.

“And what do we have here?” he looks her up and down, stopping a few feet from her, sneering. “Where did you come from?”

“Somewhere else,” Mildred says. “I’m lost. The Friar is speaking to the headmaster about me, but he’s got a visitor right now.”

“…I see. What is your name?”

“Mildred Hubble, sir,” Mildred greets, putting her hand to her forehead as she gives a short bow, “Well met.”

He frowns.

Mildred hesitates, unsure. _Maybe it’s like the spells – maybe they do things different here._ Mildred holds out her hand instead, arm straight as can be. The man eyes it, before shaking slowly, their hands barely touching.

“Severus Snape, Potions Master here at Hogwarts…you may call me Professor,” he introduces himself.

“Nice to meet you, Professor Snape,” Mildred grins, putting her hands behind her back as the griffin turns, stone grinding on stone to reveal a staircase. “Oh!”

“I suspect the Headmaster wishes to speak to you, Miss Hubble. Up,” Professor Snape orders, Mildred scampering forwards, rushing up the stairs. “ _Walk!_ ”

At his shout, Mildred stops, beginning again at a slower pace, noticing him coming up behind her. _This must be a tower,_ Mildred thinks as the stairs go on and on, until she reaches an ornate door with a plaque on it. She reads it as she knocks.

_Albus Dumbledore, O.M 1 st_

_Headmaster_

_Office hours: 9am-10pm_

“Come in!” calls a muffled voice. Mildred opens the door just as the Friar floats down through the floor, dousing her feet in cold. She shivers, but then her attention is taken by the large red bird that squawks from its perch by the desk of an old man with a long, white beard.

“Oh!” Mildred startles, the bird then proceeding to flutter across to sit on the wizard’s shoulder. “What kind of bird is he?”

“A phoenix, Miss Hubble,” Professor Snape says coldly. “Don’t you know your basic magical creatures?”

“Phoenixes are far from _basic_ , Severus,” the older wizard admonishes as Mildred walks forwards, not letting the professor’s words get to her. Ethel has said worse. “Fawkes is quite restless today.”

“Is he yours?” Mildred asks, curious.

“We are old friends,” the wizard says, blue eyes twinkling from behind his half-moon spectacles. “I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of this school. The Fat Friar tells me you were banished here and that you are quite lost.”

“I am a little,” Mildred admits, fiddling with her sash, which has loosened over the course of the day. She itches to retie it, but stays her hand. “I’m from Cackle’s Academy for Young Witches. A girl I know, we were fighting and our headmistress cast a friendship trap on us so our arms were stuck together. Her name’s Ethel and she’s horrid, but her sisters are really nice.”

“A friendship trap?” Mr Dumbledore’s eyebrows rise on his forehead. “Why, that sounds rather extreme.”

Mildred nods, glad to be rid of Ethel, even though she’s somewhere strange and unfamiliar. “She’s a bully and she tricked me, too. She took me to a room and lied and said- and said that the _Wishing Globe_ would separate us. It did, but apparently she wished for something else, too.” Mildred swallows, feeling as if she’s in a small box, the walls closing in around her. She hugs herself tightly, wanting to be back in Cackle’s with Maud and Enid – or even better, with her mum.

“A terrible fate to bestow upon a classmate,” Mr Dumbledore says, grave. There’s no twinkle to his eye anymore and his face is serious. “The Friar tells me your name is Mildred Hubble. What age are you, Miss Hubble?”

“Twelve,” Mildred says, voice cracking. “I just started my second year at Cackle’s.”

“Very well,” Mr Dumbledore says, standing, his phoenix friend fluttering back to his perch. Mr Dumbledore makes his way around his desk, stroking Fawkes once as he goes by. Mildred realises the griffin statue was right, all of a sudden, as she sees his robes – bright turquoise and covered in moving turtles and jellyfish. “We will contact the Ministry of Magic and report your appearance and hopefully, they will contact your parents and teachers to explain where you are. Then, hopefully, someone will come and collect you.”

Relief fills Mildred for a good, solid moment, but quickly her confusion takes over. “Ministry?” she frowns, “What’s the Ministry? I thought they were called the Magic Council.”

Mr Dumbledore pauses, looking over her shoulder to Professor Snape before meeting her eyes again. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of a Magic Council before, Miss Hubble. Are you sure you don’t been the Wizengamot? Or perhaps the Warlocks Council?”

 _Wizen-what? Warlock Council? Isn’t warlock just another word for wizard?_ Mildred feels a creeping sense of dread that pools in her belly, climbing up between her ribs to curl around her heart. She shakes her head rapidly.

“Mr Dumbledore,” she says, “I think I’m very far away from home. Friar Rogers and I were talking about magic before and ours isn’t the same – we use chants and- and hand movements. You use another language.”

“The Friar did mention something about that,” Mr Dumbledore says slowly. From his pocket, he withdraws a knobbly stick – a _wand_. He flicks it gently and a stream of blue sparks fall out the ends, Mildred gasping at the sight, stepping back, only to bump into Professor Snape.

“Careful,” he snaps, before Mildred backs off to the side, bumping into a bookcase. She stares at the two wizards, wondering if Professor Snape too, has a wand. “Why is she frightened?” Professor Snape asks Mr Dumbledore, short and curt.

“I believe it as she says,” the headmaster says, sombre. “She is very far away from home, indeed. Miss Hubble. Please, if you can, show us your magic – cast a spell.”

Mildred swallows, having flashbacks to her transformation spell that went wrong, which went on and on because she couldn’t stop it. _I turned Ethel into a pig,_ she thinks however, finding her confidence bolstered at the memory, strangely enough. Her shoulders square and she stands up straight, off the bookcase. Her eyes shoot around and she finds a small table, with a half-empty bowl sitting on top. Going over, Mildred empties the bowl, the striped brown and white sweets into toppling onto the table-top.

“Really? Making a mess of the headmaster’s personal study-” Professor Snape starts, before Mr Dumbledore shushes him.

“Let her do as she wills, Severus.”

Mildred, looking between the wizards hesitantly, nods, turning back to the bowl. She stares at it for a while, her mind reeling. _What rhymes with bowl?_ The bowl isn’t especially pretty – a simple black oval, with a rectangular bottom. It’s made of wood and the edges are chipped and well-handled.

Mildred allows herself a single smile as she comes up with something, before she concentrates, chanting quickly and precisely.

“ _Boring and a little rough, turn this bowl into a rug!_ ”

Her magic swirls in her hands and then with a small swirl of purple smoke and a few sparks, the bowl flops, expanding rapidly, the plain black turning into a vibrant mesh of colours. Mildred grins, stepping back as the now-fluffy and luminescent, neon-rainbow rug slips off the table onto the floor, just as she imagined it.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Professor Snape whispers, before Mr Dumbledore claps gently.

“Well done, Miss Hubble. Quite an impressive feat. Yes, I believe you are a long way from home, but alas, I do believe things would become far more complicated should we contact the Ministry. You seem to be from another magical community entirely – one I know not of. It would be dangerous if we were to reveal your existence.”

Mildred’s heart drops. “Dangerous?”

“Indeed,” Mr Dumbledore says seriously. “Does your form of magic allow for others to find you? Could your teachers track you down?”

“I- I think so. Maybe. Ethel will get in trouble as soon as everyone realises we aren’t stuck to each other anymore,” Mildred says. “They’ll come get me.” _They will,_ she thinks, believing her own words, even as she lingers on that word. “Dangerous. Why would it be dangerous?”

“Because I’m afraid we don’t use such magics, here and if there is another magical community out there we are unaware of, then the Ministry would take action,” Mr Dumbledore says, before turning to Professor Snape. “Severus. What did you want to see me about?”

Professor Snape purses his lips. “The portraits were gossiping. The subject of their fascination, in hindsight, is Miss Hubble’s appearance. I have ordered their silence already, but the damage may already be done – the students were already on their way to the Great Hall for lunch when I and the fourth years overheard them.”

“But they do not know her name,” Mr Dumbledore cleverly picks out. “Hmm…interesting. I may have a solution – temporary, it might be, until Miss Hubble’s community retrieve her.”

“What?” Mildred asks.

Mr Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle again, like stars, before he backs up, turning and walking over into a curved nook of his office. There’s a set of armchairs and several spindly artefacts – but what Mr Dumbledore picks up is what is probably the dirtiest, most ragged thing in the room: a Wizards Hat.

“Headmaster,” Professor Snape immediately protests, “you can’t just _Sort_ her.”

“Of course I can’t –  the Hat will,” Mr Dumbledore says merrily, before a third voice grumbles.

“ _She’s not in the Book. The Quill hasn’t written down her name_.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?” Mr Dumbledore says, speaking- speaking to the _hat_ , Mildred realises, eyes going wide as she catches the brim moving up and down as the Hat speaks.

“ _I should have put you in Ravenclaw,_ ” the Hat mutters, before speaking louder, at Mildred. “ _Hogwarts was founded by four witches and wizards, by the names of Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor. They in turn gave their names to Hogwarts, housing young witches and wizards and training them in their magical abilities. After they died, their names remained._ ”

“Hogwarts is split into four Houses,” Mr Dumbledore continues in a teaching voice, “Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Until you leave, you will stay here, in secret, posing as a potential transfer student. As such: your very own Sorting shall take place here and then, we shall go down to the Great Hall for some lunch and introduce you to the castle residents. How does that sound, Miss Hubble?”

Mildred bites her lip, before nodding. “Okay. This…this is only temporary, anyway.”

“Of course,” Mr Dumbledore agrees sagely, before he walks over, reverently placing the Hat on her head. It slips down, _far_ too big and Mildred finds herself shutting her eyes – it’s not as if she could see, anyway, not with the Hat being so far down her face.

 _‘Wily’_ comes the Hat’s voice, but it takes Mildred a moment to realise she didn’t _hear_ it. ‘ _Clever, too. I’m in your head, girl.’_

 _In my head?_ Mildred panics, _Can you hear me thinking?_

_‘Yes. Now, quiet. Oh yes, brave, courageous – but loyal and hard-working. Magic at Cackle’s Academy is indeed far different. Not a drop of ambition, not yet anyway. Cunning- bah! You wouldn’t know cunning if it hit you in the face, dearie. But- oh, what’s this? Now that, **that** is interesting.’_

_What’s interesting?_ Mildred asks, furrowing her brow.

 _‘A word of advice: ask Albus the date, when our conversation finishes.’_ The Hat confides, then goes silent. For a while, Mildred stands there, waiting for him to speak to her again. When a minute ticks by without any word, Mildred reaches up to push the Hat off her head, going to ask Mr Dumbledore if there’s something wrong with the Hat. _‘I’m not done!’_ the Hat then snaps at her and she lowers her hand abruptly. _‘Such a complicated witch – Helga would scoop you up, but you’d prove your worth soon enough, despite that. Rowena would ache to have you, as possessive a woman she was…the decision is difficult, but you’re not a good flier-’_

_Hey!_

_‘-so the Eagles are no kin to you. Ah!_ ’ the Hat exclaims, ‘ _it’s obvious, in retrospect – you’re just like Mr Potter. You even saved your Academy, something he’s done for Hogwarts many times and will do again, no doubt. You’d do well in Hufflepuff, but Gryffindor is as equally welcome to your sort. Choose.’_

Mildred listens to him and finds herself more confused than anything else, but she tries to make some sense of it and realises he’s offering her a choice.

 _‘I am. At least you’re somewhat less oblivious than that boy,’_ the Hat sniggers, causing Mildred to frown. The Hat sighs in her head, explaining tiredly, _‘Each House has their own stereotypes, but in general: Gryffindor is full of the chivalrous and reckless, Ravenclaw the clever and shrewd, Slytherin the ambitious and unfortunately, historically, the less morally scrupulous and Hufflepuff, the hard-working and lacking.’_

His words hit Mildred like a truck. _But you thought I’d do well in Hufflepuff!_

_‘And you would – your ability to pass the entrance exams to Cackle’s Academy says so. Mildred Hubble, please remember that this isn’t so serious an endeavour, not to you. If you became a Hufflepuff, you could proudly say you were a Badger – yellow and black would be your colours.’_

_And Gryffindor?_ Mildred questions, tentative.

_‘A roaring lion, red and gold. They’re a rowdy bunch, but Gryffindor Tower is often more home than their true residencies to its occupants than not.’_

Mildred hears murmuring, then, from Professor Snape. “A Hatstall…”

“I wonder if she’ll beat the record,” Mr Dumbledore whispers back to him.

 _What’s a Hatstall?_ Mildred asks the Hat.

 _‘Traditionally, I Sort all the first years in one sitting at the beginning of the year, on their first day,’_ the Hat says. ‘ _Hatstalls are those that supposedly take too long, in the opinion of the students. Stops them from eating their dinner. However, you won’t be beating the record today, no matter what Albus thinks – I don’t need half an hour to stew over your pretty mind, Miss Hubble. No, choose for yourself, allow yourself a choice.’_

 _Lions or badgers?_ Mildred thinks, gut twisting. It’s true, she won’t be at Hogwarts long – hopefully, at least – but this is something that seemly predates her all the way to the founding of this school. It’s important and she can’t decide. _You choose,_ she says to the Hat.

The Hat sighs. _‘I’ll forever think on you, among others, Miss Hubble. For today, I sort you into-’_

* * *

Harry picks at his roast beef, not even able to enjoy it much, though he had definitely salivated when he smelt it. His head is aching now from that bludger that hit him in the Quidditch Trials that morning and right now, as his head _pounds_ , not even his shiny Gryffindor Team Captain badge can make up for it. He also has detention with Snape to look forwards to. Then, of course, Ron elbows him excitedly, adding another ache to the list.

“Mate, look,” Ron whispers, pointing to the staff table. Harry looks, blinking in surprise at the sight of Professor Dumbledore standing in front of the staff table with a young girl dressed in a knee-length dress with a school shirt underneath it. One of her socks are bunched at her ankle, the other pulled up and very clearly striped – even Harry can see it, as far down Gryffindor table as they are – and her brown hair is in long plaits. If she had glasses, Harry might have thought she were related to Moaning Myrtle, somehow.

“Students!” Dumbledore calls, a silence slowly falling, only whispers remaining as he speaks. “Students, today I have a new student to introduce to you who may or may not be transferring from her magical academy to Hogwarts. Mildred Hubble shall be joining the second years in their classes until further notice and I hope you treat her as you would any new student.”

“What House is she in?” shouts a fourth year from Ravenclaw, standing up slightly, head rising above the crowd. “Do we get to see her Sorted?”

Professor Dumbledore smiles genially, “I’m afraid her Sorting has already been done privately, Mr Birchhouse. Mildred Hubble will be joining…” he trails off, smiling slightly. The whispers rise and the tension grates on Harry, rather than enthuses. He meets her eyes though – this new girl, who nervously waves.

Harry waves back, just because it would be rude not to.

“…Gryffindor,” Dumbledore finishes, finally and then the young girl – Mildred Hubble – skips down the steps from the raised area towards the Gryffindor table. She’s smiling and so obviously nervous. Harry thinks she seems rather cheery – but he can see the laces of her boots that come undone and he cringes right before it happens, because he can _tell_ what’s about to happen.

Unable to help, Harry Potter watches as Hogwarts’ newest second year trips over her own feet and lands flat on her face in front of the entire school.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s always a certain feeling of dread when she sees Ethel Hallow. Perhaps it is the nature in which Mildred Hubble interacts with her – reminding her all too fondly of less pleasant times from her own childhood – but Hecate can’t shake it, no matter how hard she tries. That dread, now, is being swamped by regret, hot and burning.

“Where did you send Mildred?” Hecate questions her student, Ada slumped in her chair with her hands to her face. Hecate can’t imagine the guilt she’s feeling right now – but to be fair, none of them could have expected Ethel to figure out a way to release the Friendship Trap. Fully-grown witches haven’t managed it.

“Away,” Ethel mutters, squirming. “Somewhere that isn’t _here._ ”

“Here as in Cackle’s?” Hecate demands, but Ethel refuses to answer. “Speak, girl.”

“No. Mildred’s gone and I don’t care what happens to her.”

“That may be true,” Dimity snaps, now, “However, you’re the only one. Mildred is twelve, just like you, Ethel. Not only that, but she didn’t grow up like you – she can’t send up a red star into the sky or lean on a parent-bond.”

Ethel scowls. “And?”

“And…that may not be quite true,” Hecate starts, mind whirling as Dimity frowns at her. “Magic doesn’t come from nowhere. Mildred has never mentioned a father, has she?” The question is rhetorical and as she summons Julie Hubble to Ada’s office, it is with a certain degree of awareness – so she brings along the chair, too.

Julie appears with a fork halfway to her mouth, magazine in hand as she looks up and around, huffing.

“What _now?_ And can’t you give me some kind of warning when you’re going to randomly summon me to the school? I was at work,” Julie shakes her head, eating the food off her fork before popping it into the pocket of her white jacket. She stands, putting her magazine on her chair. “Where’s Mildred?”

“Gone,” Ethel says haughtily, chin raised and her mouth curled into a sneer. The change in Julie is instant. Hecate sees it in the way her shoulders straighten and her face smooths, the glint in her eyes cooler than ice. There’s a few silent moment where she’s frozen in place, still as a gargoyle, but when Julie Hubble steps over and crouches in front of Ethel, Hecate doesn’t stop her.

Instinct tells her it would be a bad idea to try.

“You’re Ethel Hallow, aren’t you, love?” Julie says, voice quiet and low. Ethel’s sneer disappears, replaced by a flash of uncertainty. “Mildred likes to talk about you a lot.”

“Mildred likes to talk about a lot of things. Who are you?”

“I’m Millie’s mum and I think you’ve done something very stupid, something you don’t realise isn’t just a silly game or trick.” Julie glances at Dimity, who grimaces but explains very quickly.

“Mildred and Ethel were bound together by a Friendship Trap, a type of magic meant to solve disputes between witches. It’s unable to be removed except by the caster or by the witches involved. The latter involves unlocking it with a powerful influx of positive emotion. Ethel took Mildred to an out-of-bounds area and used a Wishing Globe to remove the Trap and also to send Mildred somewhere.”

“How long?”

“Less than an hour,” Hecate says. “The staff were alerted when the Globe took magic from the school to charge its reserves and as our new art teacher was unfamiliar with the situation, it fell upon Mildred’s friends to inform Miss Cackle that Ethel was running around without accompaniment.”

“Right,” Julie says, gaze flickering back to Ethel. “Ethel, do you understand what you did? What you _really_ did?”

“I sent her away-”

“Yes and where to? Is she even alive?” Julie’s calm cracks momentarily, but she pulls herself together admirably. “How would you feel if it were you?”

The expression Ethel makes is conflicted, full of confusion and a frisson of fear. “I-I- I don’t know.”

“Scared, I’d bet. Alone, lost – I’d be terrified and I’m an adult.” Julie taps Ethel’s knee with her index finger, a façade of closeness even though she doesn’t get an inch nearer. “Where did you send Millie, love?”

“…away,” Ethel says and this time, there is _shame_ and Hecate, in any other circumstance, might applaud the ordinary woman for such a feat. “Away to a different magical community where she could bother them instead.”

“What does that mean?” Julie looks to Ada and Hecate, their eyes meeting. Ethel’s words twist through her brain and Hecate tries to come up with a suitable answer, but instead has to turn to Ethel.

“What did _you_ mean when you wished her away from us? Did you send her to the hedge witches? To the wizards? To another school?” Hecate desperately wishes that it is any but an alternative – because the Wishing Globe is more powerful that any give it credit and the magic it stole from the school was…phenomenally large. Nothing the school couldn’t recuperate within a few minutes, especially with the amount of young witches giving off ambient magic around, but _proportionally_ , the amount was terrifying.

“To somewhere she couldn’t bother any of us, ever again,” Ethel mumbles. “Like…like another universe.”

Hecate, for a moment, feels like she might wink out of existence and judging from her stumble backwards, so does Dimity.

“Can magic do that? Send people to other universes?” Julie questions, bringing her back to reality. Hecate nods.

“It can, though I’m not the one who would know,” Hecate says, looking to her co-worker. The Star of the Sky looks like she’s going to be ill and Julie Hubble straightens, moving around Ethel to take her arm, leading her to a nearby chair.

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” the ordinary woman says. “I’m going to guess you’ve had experience with other universes, from that comment.”

“Oh yes,” Dimity says, shaking her head. “It was an accident. Something like eight years ago, there was a magical explosion on- on a magical holiday. I was flying when I shouldn’t have been – I was stupid, irresponsible, even with my protective spells – and the lightning storm sucked me through a bridge between two different planes of existence: our universe and another. The effect only lasted a little while, but while I was there…”

“Dimity, you don’t have to explain everything,” Hecate forces herself to say, remembering that Mabon, when the drenched witchball coach had come back, haggard and distraught. _She died,_ Dimity had croaked, _she died._

“Yeah, no, don’t,” Julie agrees, voice soothing as she rubs Dimity’s arm. “But I think Mildred won’t be coming back the same way you did, if it only lasted a little bit.”

“I agree,” Ada says, voice as gentle and soft as ever. “The Wish must be reversed. Ethel…”

“No,” Ethel then says, vehement. “I won’t be placed under that accursed Friendship Trap again. It was bad enough just having to spend an _hour_ attached to Mildred Hubble. I won’t _ever_ let you put me under one of those again.”

Hecate bristles, “Be more respectful to your headmistress, Miss Hallow.”

Ethel glares at her mutinously, all previous feelings of shame gone. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Julie shaking and realises that the ordinary woman is losing composure, fast. Without explaining herself, Hecate transfers Ethel away to her room, following after taking a moment to say, “I’ll be back momentarily.”

In Ethel’s room, Hecate is quick to pinpoint Nightstar by her owners side, banishing the cat from the room.

“Nightstar!” Ethel exclaims.

“You are hereby secluded to your room until the situation has been resolved,” Hecate says, voice whip-smart, enchanting the door, window, outside corridor and communal bathroom with a monitoring spell. “You are also under suspension. If you leave here for anything other than an emergency or the bathroom, I shall know. Food shall be sent to your desk at mealtimes and your family will be notified. You may have up to two visitors at a time. Any questions?”

“Why?” Ethel questions hotly. “All I did was get rid of a school-wide _menace._ ”

Hecate glares. “Mildred Hubble is not a menace. _You_ are.”

Transferring away before she has to put up with banal and idiotic whining from the twelve-year old, Hecate does as she said she would, tracking down Sybil Hallow first, inwardly composing a maglet message she can send to Mr Hallow rather than his wife. Sybil Hallow is apparently in her room…crying under a blanket.

A prickle runs down Hecate’s back. She feels as if she were intruding.

Sybil is still a witch, however and it doesn’t take long for her to sit up, feeling something off about the new atmosphere. Hecate, as an adult and a powerful witch besides, gives off a quite distinctive magical signature. Sybil eventually turns around to look behind her, almost falling off her own bed as she gasps, squeaking.

“Miss Hardbroom!”

“Miss Hallow,” Hecate greets, recalling starkly where the first year girl should be at this moment. “Would you like to explain why you are not in class? While potions and witchball are currently free period classes this afternoon, you have spell science.”

“I-I- I was scared,” Sybil says, stuttering, “with everything that’s happening, Ethel in a Friendship Trap and- and Esme not having her powers, I wanted to be alone.”

Hecate tries not to wince. “I’m afraid, Sybil, that your sister Ethel is no longer in a Friendship Trap. As such, she is suspended and confined to her room.”

“What? Why?” Sybil questions, brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“…Mildred is missing,” Hecate admits, knowing that the news would reach her eventually. “Your sister willingly admitted it was because of something she did. I will be informing your family later. I understand if this information is…traumatising, considering your anxiety.”

Sybil, of course, then decides to have a panic attack. “Ethel banished Mildred? Oh no, oh _no_ …” she hugs herself, visibly panicking. Hecate wishes she had more confidence in herself – but it won’t help right now to _wish_. Sybil needs someone to help her. _I’m the only one here to do that,_ Hecate swallows in realisation, but nods to herself. Stepping around her bed, Hecate sits down on the squeaky mattress, drawing Sybil to sit beside her.

“Breathe. In and out, in and out,” she instructs calmly. Sybil doesn’t may her any attention though, lost in her own thoughts. Hecate takes a breath, clearing her throat and saying her words sharper. “Sybil Hallow, _listen._ ”

Sybil looks at her. Hecate repeats her words over and over as Sybil tries to follow her directions. As the minutes pass, Sybil gets control of her breathing, but still cries afterwards, the shock of the situation showing itself in other ways. Hecate feels a strange tingle in her magic like- like _kinship_ and awkwardness bloom in her chest as she recalls her own panic attacks, supposing that’s why her magic now feels so warm towards this girl. However, she pushes all of it aside forcefully, putting a comforting hand on Sybil’s upper back, feeling her heart thudding against her ribcage, the air entering and leaving her lungs. Sybil, thankfully, doesn’t completely break down – but it’s a close thing. Hecate can tell.

She wishes someone had been here for her like this – that someone, _anyone_ had been with her during her time with Mistress Broomhead. But then, maybe, she wouldn’t know what to do in times like these when little girls’ chests seize and their airways open and close manically. Hecate regrets few decisions in her life, apprenticing under Wilhelmina Broomhead being one of them, but the things she learned then help her now and it is the only thing she is thankful for.

“Sybil,” Hecate eventually addresses the young witch, “do you need anything else? I will not leave until I am sure you are stable.”

“I’m- I’m fine,” she whispers, wiping her face with a handkerchief from her beside table. “Thank-you for staying with me and- and helping me calm down. So many _bad_ things are happening.”

“I will endeavour to keep a closer eye on all things Hallow,” Hecate promises, removing her hand finally and summoning a slip of paper with her pre-prepared signature. “For now, though, I will help track down Mildred Hubble. You are hereby excused from classes for the afternoon, but if you do not appear at dinner, I shall assign you a detention of sorts with Mr Rowan-Webb, so you can catch up. A mandatory remedial session, of sorts – one that he will not be allowed to derail into pointless conversation.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” Sybil says, nodding as she takes the slip. Content that Sybil will be fine, Hecate stands, transferring away back to Ada’s office as she does.

When she reappears, it is to find Dimity and Julie curled up in two of Ada’s armchairs with cups of tea. Hecate hears a snippet of what Dimity is saying to her, hearing _her daughter was there, too and her spouse_. Hecate guesses they’re talking of Dimity’s experience in the other universe.

“Hecate,” Ada greets her from the library area behind her desk, a book in hand. “We’ve just been researching the Wishing Globe some more. As a noted artefact in the school’s keeping, all paper references in the library were already marked on file for future use.”

“We?” Hecate instead chooses to address, understanding the necessity of looking over past notes on the Wishing Globe, in case the situation can be reversed without Ethel’s cooperation. Peering around the room, her eyes lock on a soft pink handbag, the rose gold zipper only half-closed, revealing crisp white paper bags inside, one with _Hiccup_ written in brilliant pink on the side. “Ah.”

 _I missed lunch,_ Hecate realises.

“Hello Hecate,” Pippa greets, popping her head around the pillar. There’s a book in her hands, pressed against her chest as she smiles at her friend. “You didn’t meet me for tea today and I got worried when you didn’t answer my maglet message. Ada told me what happened. I’m here to help as long as you need.”

“Thank-you for coming,” Hecate smiles back at her tremulously, the reality that Mildred Hubble is gone returning her mind to ashen territory. Feeling guilty for allowing the situation to ever happen – noticing the Founding Stone on Ada’s coffee table as she turns to face Julie Hubble – Hecate approaches the ordinary woman, playing with her watch nervously. “Mistress Hubble.”

Julie, already looking in her direction, both she and Dimity distracted from their conversation, gives her a small nod.

“Miss Hardbroom,” she greets and Hecate notices her red eyes, pink splotches on her cheeks from crying. “What happened with Ethel?”

“I took her to her room. She’s confined there and under suspension until Mildred is found and returned,” Hecate replies. “After, I visited her sister, who didn’t take the news very well. Sybil Hallow is…sensitive. Anxious.”

“Is she okay?” Dimity questions, worried.

“She is now,” Hecate allows. “I wish to offer my apologies, Mistress Hubble. Many things have happened to your daughter in this institution that…that should not have. I would not blame you if you wished to transfer your daughter elsewhere, when we find her once more.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Julie immediately says. “Millie loves this school. She loves magic and this is where she found it. Her friends are here and all of you – you’re her teachers, her role models for witches everywhere.”

A flush rises in Hecate’s cheeks. “I’m far from a role model,” she protests.

“I agree,” Dimity says jokingly, before Ada tsks. Dimity winces. “That was a joke.”

“You’re a fine role model, Hecate,” Ada says, still giving Dimity a _Look_. Hecate looks at her watch, fiddling with the clasp. _She’s just saying that to make me feel better. I’m the scary Head Bitch of the school – HB indeed._

“Hiccup,” Pippa starts, hand on her elbow as she slides up to stand beside her. “I think that your actions describe more things about you than words. I found something in my book.”

“You did?” Hecate looks up, finding Pippa holding a book for them both to see, turned to a page on Wishing Globe’s, a colourful illustration taking up half the page moving back and forth between blue and violet. Scowling at it, Hecate reads the tiny text Pippa points to before she puts her hand back around Hecate’s back, drawing her closer. Hecate, too focused on reading the passage and finding a way to retrieve Mildred, barely notices.

_Often, witches have used Wishing Globe’s to banish other witches. The magic of the Wishing Globe’s usually infers the distance both wanted and required, taking power to match, though often – as per the nature of Wishing Globe’s – the simplest solution is implemented. These quantifiable distances can be as small and as large as the Globe chooses; as the Globe’s are non-sentient however, they rely on both conscious and subconscious imagery._

“‘Like another universe’,” Hecate mumbles, shaking her head. “Ethel Hallow said that. If this book is correct, then the Globe may indeed have sent Mildred to another universe as we hypothesised.”

“How do we find her, then?” Julie asks, distraught, “It’s not like we can use facial-recognition tech or something to find her if she’s not somewhere we can reach.”

“Actually, alternate universes are easy to travel to,” Hecate corrects, “and as Mildred is a witch, she may have a parent-bond with her magical parent which they can use to track her down. Was Mildred’s father a wizard, Mistress Hubble?”

Julie, at her words, looks horrified. “I beg your pardon?”

“What Hecate means to say is,” Pippa tries, more gently, gleaning more from Julie’s reaction than Hecate obviously did, “if Mildred ever had a wizard for a father that she knew, or another witch for a mother, they would have developed a magical bond with her which they’d be able to follow if Mildred was ever distressed.”

“Mildred never knew her dad – he was long gone before I even knew I was having her,” Julie admits, looking pained. “Does this mean we have to track him down?”

“No,” Hecate says. “If Mildred never knew them, then there is no bond.”

“Good,” Julie mumbles, drinking more of her tea. “How does it even work? Is it just blood relations?”

“Parental figures,” Dimity says, as Hecate realises finally that Pippa’s arm is around her waist. As she looks to Pippa, who looks perfectly comfortable as she listens to Dimity, Hecate swallows the lump in her throat.

 _We’ve not been this close in years,_ she thinks, remembering when they were teenagers who sprawled out together on Hecate’s queen-sized bed doing homework and comparing their spells. Hecate recalls once, even, when her mother came in one morning after a sleepover and thought they’d slept together – giving them the Witch Talk later that day, ignoring their protests. Hecate had been too mortified to deny they were even in a relationship for another month.

“Parent-bonds are usually strictly for children and their parents, but parental figures – aunts, uncles, hell, even _teachers_ have had parental bonds with young witches and wizards,” Dimity explains, “God knows I’ve got one with Beatrice Bunch, the hellion. She’s barely been here two months and I can feel a tingle.”

“Really?” Julie questions.

“Indeed,” Ada confirms, taking the book Pippa had showed Hecate, reading the page as she absentmindedly continues talking. “I’ve had dozens with students. They fade when they reach majority, but it is still quite the joy, if a responsibility.”

“I’ve not had many,” Pippa admits quietly, face twisting at Ada’s words. Hecate thinks, perhaps she might be a smidge jealous, but she shakes her head, smiling slightly. “They’ve all been worth it, though. My apprentices have always looked up to me.”

“Maybe it’s because your students have the option of going home on the weekends,” Hecate offers.

“Maybe,” Pippa agrees, before Julie asks Hecate a question.

“What about you?”

“…me?” Hecate blinks, “Are you asking whether I have had… _parent-bonds_ with any of my students?”

“Have you?” Julie asks, eyebrow raised. “Or are you too strict of a teacher for kids to get close?”

Hecate frowns. “I’m not _that_ unlikeable. I have mentored plenty of young witches.”

“Mentoring isn’t the same,” Dimity denies. “Having a parent-bond is…it’s so _simple_. You just feel a connection and that’s it – your magics do the rest, tying you together until you know if your kid is happy, angry, sad-”

“Or in danger, I know, Dimity,” Hecate cuts in. “I _did_ read the handbook, you know. Every teacher gets one when they come to Cackle’s. Have you even read _yours?_ ”

Dimity grins cheekily, “What handbook was that again?”

Hecate rolls her eyes, before Ada catches their attention politely, reading the passage that Pippa had found out aloud for Dimity and Julie to hear.

“Which universe is she in, then?” Dimity questions. “How do we find out?”

“The Magic Council monitors the usual doors,” Hecate says, “though it seems likely that the Wishing Globe created its own, rather than take the many steps to send Mildred through an open portal.”

“What are you on about?” Julie questions, quite befuddled.

“Concentrated spots around the world, usually set on nexus points – where ley lines cross – are high-magic areas,” Pippa lectures quickly, “Therefore, with the right occasions, doors open and close, year-round. All known doors are monitored by the Magic Council and while some fluctuate, most are steady. It’s not well-known information, for good reason – usually, there’s no way back unless you’re prepared for the world you’re entering and some explorers haven’t come back yet.”

Julie looks quite surprised, “There are magical expeditions to other worlds?”

“Of course,” Hecate replies, miffed.

Pippa’s arm around her waist tightens, “Hecate, be nice,” she says warningly. “Have you any ideas as to how we could track Mildred to whichever universe she’s trapped in?”

“…I could do something,” Hecate murmurs, reluctantly moving out of Pippa’s grip to move closer to Julie, summoning a vial and a small knife. “Your blood, please.”

Ada gasps, “Hecate!”

“What?” Hecate snaps at her friend, “We’re talking about the safety of a child. The Magic Council don’t need to find out.”

“Blood magic is a _bad_ idea, HB,” Dimity says lowly. “Do you even know how blood magic works?”

Hecate squirms slightly under the multiple gazes. “I am a novice, but I know,” she says, instead of saying _Mistress Broomhead was insistent I learn, at my own cost._ She holds out the knife to Julie, hilt first. “It will heal you as soon as the vial is full.”

Julie eyes it, “I’d be more comfortable doing it the ordinary way, if you don’t mind. Just pop me back to my office, give me two minutes and I can get the stuff I need. I’m a doctor – I take people’s blood all the time.”

“It wastes time,” Hecate says, before Pippa waves her hand, magic reaching across the room to transfer Julie away, along with her chair. “ _Pippa,_ ” Hecate hisses at her friend.

“It’s her daughter. Let her have something familiar,” Pippa argues, “She’s not a witch anyway, Hecate, we shouldn’t be using magic on her.”

“I wouldn’t, the knife would,” Hecate sniffs, before she sits down in Julie’s vacated chair, tired of standing. Dimity eyes her warily. “What?”

The coach takes a long moment before she replies carefully. “I thought better of you. Blood magic is dark magic, Hecate.”

“…I too, thought better,” Ada then says and while Hecate could have taken it from Dimity, from this woman who has known her less than ten years – she can’t take it from Ada, Ada who pulled her from her depression and stuck her in the spare potions lab thirty years ago, who Hecate can never thank enough.

Mouth dry, Hecate looks to her lap, hands coming up to her watch, to Pippa’s watch – to Grandmother Constance’s watch that they repaired together, in her candlelit dorm room when Hecate was sixteen and Pippa was fifteen. She opens it, now, looking at the picture inside of her nieces and nephews, products of her two sisters and single brother. Hecate has no-one to add to that picture. All the talk of parent-bonds makes her feel nauseous, almost.

She closes her watch when Pippa sneaks over, hand dipping to her shoulder, who has been silent on the topic of dark magic.

“My family isn’t as good as people remember,” she says, perfectly calm and content. “Just because I’m more famous for my fashion pieces, for running the first of Albion’s co-ed schools, for teaching children modern magic – it doesn’t mean I’m _ignorant._ ”

“No,” Hecate agrees, slightly confused. She tilts her head up, meeting Pippa’s eyes. Silently, she asks, _what are you trying to tell me?_

Pippa’s eyes gain a glint that reminds Hecate of being defended, of Pippa standing up to her bullies and torturers. Her hand slips off Hecate’s shoulder, long nails dragging over the lace of her dress.

“It means that I own more books on blood magic than you’ll ever read in a lifetime, Hiccup. There’s a reason you were never allowed over to my house and it wasn’t because the Hardbroom name was tainted.”

Her words throw Hecate and cause her to have more questions than answers, but Pippa summons Julie again and Hecate stops herself from asking. Pippa cheerfully occupies herself with questioning Julie about the medical supplies she’s brought, plucking the vial from Hecate’s hand to give to the Hubble woman.

However, just like her daughter, Julie Hubble is quick to pick up on the tension in the room. When blood is travelling from her veins to the vial far faster than Hecate expected, she questions them.

“Okay, so what happened in the five minutes I was gone? Also, is blood magic…illegal? Because I’m sure I read the Code back to front a couple of times and it never said anything about blood magic.”

“It’s frowned upon,” Pippa says, sombre, cheeriness fading. “Blood magic is primarily used for controlling other witches, so it falls under the more obvious rules of the Code. Truthfully, what we have in mind for your blood is usually used for lineage spells – a wizards spell to find their bastards, because witches were known at some point to give their sons to other witches who were more equipped for raising and educating wizards in good conduct. Witches are very secular, traditionally – it’s why many frown upon Mr Rowan-Webb being employed at Cackle’s, but he’s more accepted due to being raised by two witches.”

“Really?” Julie questions, cleaning her arm up and letting Pippa cork the bottle of her blood, hot enough it causes condensation on the glass. “Huh, I suppose that makes sense. Rowan-Webb. In the ordinary world, most women take their husbands names, or they hyphenate.”

Hecate’s nose wrinkles. “A degrading practice. Witches do not belong to wizards.”

“Does that mean wizards take their wives’ names?” Julie inquires, obviously curious.

“Usually,” Ada says, subdued. “It’s common for wizards marrying into older witching families to take their wife’s name due to the prestige, but occasionally they remain as they were. Marriage is a magical union, tying two families together. Names only matter if they mean something, politically.”

Julie hums, taking in that information with a short _alright_ , before sticking a small, skin-coloured dot to her arm where the vein had been prodded, disposing of her items in a plastic bag she brings out from her pocket, tucking it into the bin under Ada’s desk.

“So, a find-my-kid spell,” she rubs her hands together, looking between Hecate and Pippa. “Before we do it, how is this going to work? Are you guys going to disappear off into another universe to find her? Am I coming? What’s going to happen?”

“Well,” Hecate starts, looking between her colleagues and Pippa. “I suppose, if you wish, you could come. I am going to find her, definitely.”

“I’ll come with you,” Pippa volunteers.

“Are you sure?” Hecate sits up straighter in her chair. “Getting back may be difficult, or take some time – what about Pentangle’s?”

“I’ll talk to Jola, my deputy,” Pippa says, almost carelessly. “She’s more than prepared for the new school year. It’s late enough that the first problems post-summer have been sorted and exam season isn’t until after Ostara anyway.”

“You should speak to her, then,” Hecate says, being reminded of her wish to contact Mr Hallow. “We must spend as little time as possible searching.”

“How long could it take?” Julie questions, Hecate standing and brushing off her dress needlessly.

“As we said before: not all the explorers came back,” Hecate says briskly. “Which is why I’ll be doing it myself, on my own.”

“I _just_ said I’d join you-” Pippa starts hotly, before Hecate cuts her off.

“I’ve been Ada’s deputy for over twenty years and even _I’m_ not ready to take over the running of a whole school. If I’m not back in…” Hecate hesitates, “a week, then follow me.”

Pippa is quelled. “Fine. One week,” Pippa says crisply, “not a day more.”

Hecate nods and there’s tension – good tension, _strange_ tension, before Pippa pulls Hecate into a hug.

“You’d better get back,” Hecate murmurs. “Get a spellbook, I mean. Unless you know it off by heart.”

“I know it,” Pippa whispers into her ear, before they part, turning to Julie. Hecate sees her, looking so helpless and brave.

“Mildred is so much like you,” she can’t help but say, “you make the same faces.”

Julie looks a little startled at Hecate’s compliment, but smiles. “Thanks. I’ve not heard stuff like that since my mum died. She was always going on about how Millie and I were so alike.”

 _Oh,_ Hecate thinks all of a sudden. _Her mother is dead._ Meaning, Mildred’s grandmother died at some point – Mildred never knew her father, either. _How much family does this girl have? If the only friends she has are here at Cackle’s, too, how alone is she really, when she goes home for the holidays?_

“Your welcome,” she says after a moment, before Pippa speaks.

“We should go to the potions lab. I need about ten minutes of brewing time and fifteen minutes prep-work, unless you’d like to help, Hecate.”

“I’ll follow your lead,” Hecate says, looking to her friend, but still glancing back at Julie once more. “Would you prefer to go back to work?”

Julie shakes her head, “God, no. I’m going to be too worried over Mildred to focus. I’ll call the reception, tell them Mildred’s gone missing. Just go get my daughter back.”

Then, the ordinary woman steps forwards, hand coming to grip Hecate’s elbow.

Julie is smaller than she thought, she realises, now they’re closer. She smells like chemicals and there are near-invisible golden curls around the edge of her hairline that her bun isn’t containing. Round blue eyes, so different from Pippa’s brown. Hecate swallows, struggling not to follow the line of her jaw, white lapel of her jacket and the blue of her V-neck shirt below it.

 _Control yourself,_ she thinks, hoping she looks panicked enough that Julie doesn’t realise Hecate looked down at her chest. Unfortunately for Hecate, it seems that _Pippa_ was the one to notice, however, a wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows.

“Thank-you,” Julie says to her, heartfelt. “You might be a bitch sometimes, but you care and that’s rare. So, thank-you. Thank-you _so_ much. For Mildred.”

“…for Mildred,” Hecate says, before Julie’s warm hand drops.

For some reason, she wishes it stayed there.


	3. Chapter 3

Mildred looks around in awe as she walks down the street. Witches and wizards walk around casually, dressed in thick robes to keep the wind off them and everywhere she looks, Mildred can see _magic._ The lampposts are lit with blue flames, carts are running without horses, all the shops have moving advertisements on their windows and signposts and the most amazing thing of all: Professor Hagrid.

“That there’s Zonko’s,” the half-giant says, pointing at a boarded-up shop. “Joke shop. Shut down with Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, good on them boys. Fred and George got their own shop last year and they’re doing pretty well for themselves, if I do say so myself.”

Mildred cranes her neck to look up at him. _Half **giant** , _she thinks again, a bubble of laughter escaping her at the unrealness of the situation.

“Hogsmeade is… _quaint_ ,” Mildred says, grinning, never having need to use the word before. Professor Hagrid shrugs, before leading her over to a store called _Gladrags._ In the windows, there are robes on display – one in magenta, another in gold and two in plain black with silver buttons and cufflinks. The two of them go inside, Professor Hagrid ducking his head so he doesn’t bang it on the doorframe. Mildred wonders what would be more hurt – Professor Hagrid or the doorframe.

“Oi, anyone in here?” Professor Hagrid barks, a rustling coming from the left. Mildred, peering at the racks of robes, thinks it looks like a suit store, but she doesn’t know how anything is sorted. _Winter robes?_ She thinks, glancing at the nearest section. _Are they like coats?_ Mildred tries to see more, but then a wizard appears out of nowhere, bowing slightly.

“Welcome to Gladrags Emporium! Professor Dumbledore sent a letter saying a late student would be coming for Hogwarts robes and a few casual sets, too. I am Mr Gladdentree,” the wizard greets, nodding to Professor Hagrid and smiling happily at Mildred. “You must be the infamous Miss Hubble!”

“That’s me!” Mildred grins back at him. “Is this like a tailors shop?”

“Indeed it is,” Mr Gladdentree replies, suddenly far more distant. His smile fades and he tilts his head towards the back of the shop. “This way, Miss Hubble.”

Blinking at the sudden change of personality, Mildred looks to Hagrid, befuddled, the half-giant shaking his head, muttering to her.

“Gladrags is for more _pure_ clientele, even if he’s the good sort,” he rolls his eyes. “He thinks y’er a muggleborn.”

“A muggleborn?” Mildred wrinkles her nose, before walking after Mr Gladdentree, Professor Hagrid following behind her. “What’s a muggle?”

“Non-magic folk,” Professor Hagrid says shortly, before Mr Gladdentree comes into sight again, directing Mildred up onto a podium. The magical tailor whips out his wand and then, before Mildred knows it, he’s noting down measurements as a tape measure whips around, measuring seemingly every part of her body from her ankles to her ears.

“You’re a proportioned young girl,” Mr Gladdentree mutters, tilting his head slightly. “If your ears don’t grow into your face as you get older, I’d recommend getting them done.”

Mildred immediately puts her hands up to her ears, eyes going wide as Hagrid chuffs Gladdentree on the shoulder, making him stumble forwards.

“Stop it, she’s a lil’ girl,” Professor Hagrid growls. “She don’t need your comments. Get her some school robes set up, all the bells and whistles. Shoes, Gryffindor ties and stripes-”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Gladdentree hurriedly agrees, nodding quickly.

Mr Gladdentree makes her wear a plain black robe so he can pin it properly, before he gets her to try on a uniform, tailoring it in front of her so she can see it in the mirror. Mildred finds it all rather strange, as Mr Gladdentree gives her the ‘under-uniform’ too, to wear. It’s like a normal school uniform, with a black pleated skirt to her knees, thick tights and a white button-up shirt with long sleeves and a starched collar. There’s a school pullover, too, a long-sleeved round-necked jumper made of thick red wool with gold along the wrist seams, the Gryffindor lion roaring rampant on her chest – literally roaring, the magic making it move its jaw in a repetitive motion. Mildred can’t help but be slightly awed by it.

“Robes go over the top,” Professor Hagrid mutters, when she asks what they’re used for, not really answering her question.

“It’s like the over-robes that Oxford students wear, they aren’t coats – we have cloaks for those,” Mr Gladdentree answers shortly, surprising her. She remembers what Professor Hagrid called him, _the good sort._ “Hogwarts isn’t the only magical school in Britain, as I’m sure you know – I’ve never seen your uniform before, so it must be a new school – but Hogwarts is the most prestigious, by far. Only Beauxbatons and Durmstrang of Europe and Mahoutokoro of Japan could compete.”

“You’ve got pride, mentioning the other schools,” Professor Hagrid puffs up, obviously proud of Hogwarts and somewhat peeved at Mr Gladdentree’s ‘betrayal’.

“I go to Cackle’s Academy for Young Witches,” Mildred says, “or I did. It’s…gone.”

Mr Gladdentree stiffens, before looking up at her, eyes dark. “Gone,” he repeats, looking to Professor Hagrid. “The war?”

“Dumbledore is paying you good money to keep quiet about her,” Professor Hagrid snorts, jerking his thumb at Mildred, “What do you think?”

 _Paying good money?_ Mildred swallows, wondering what war Mr Gladdentree is talking about. It weighs on her as he finishes his alterations of her robes, giving her a finished set to wear back to Hogwarts, her old uniform in a brown paper bag.

“I’ll send up more school uniforms tomorrow by owl,” he promises, as if the ‘by owl’ comment doesn’t make Mildred blink. “Now, casual robes – I have a small but diverse range and Hogwarts is paying for four school sets and two casual, so how about one full robe set and an over-robe, for your normal clothes, yes?”

“…okay?” Mildred agrees, letting herself be led to a far more colourful corner of the shop. She has to stop short at a set of peach robes with orange butterflies flying around them, “Is this where Mr Dumbledore gets his robes?”

Mr Gladdentree snorts. “He special-orders his robes, but yes, otherwise – and it’s _Professor_ Dumbledore. You have to teach before you can head a school and he more than earned his position. Professor Dumbledore is one of the foremost Masters of Transfiguration of the century.”

“Really?” Mildred’s eyes widen. _That the spell I showed him with my magic must have **really** been more than he was expecting, if he’s a Master of Transfiguration!_

“Oh yes,” Mr Gladdentree nods solemnly, before giving her free range to choose from rolls of fabric. Mildred looks through them all, awing at dappled greens and sunset gradients of pink and yellow. However, it really is the _properly_ patterned ones that she likes the best and not only does she end up picking the peach and orange butterflies fabric, but she chooses a dark red robe with crackling yellow lightning bolts dotting it sparingly.

Professor Hagrid chuckles when he sees it. “Reminds me of a student,” he says when she asks why he’s laughing. “Suits you.”

Mr Gladdentree decides some things, including that the peach robes would be the ‘full robe set’ and once Professor Hagrid mentions that Hogwarts’ tab is open on this matter for sensible purchases, Mr Gladdentree goes…a little wild. Mildred, by the end of the trip has two new pairs of shoes – not including a pair of boots he gives her, too – three plain sets of robes in dark green, blue and brown, two cloaks – one of which that’s lined with fur, ‘for the winter’ – a set of dragon-hide gloves and two satchels, one with the Hogwarts crest on it and another with a caricature of a creature that she saw and was fascinated by.

“It’s a mermaid,” Professor Hagrid confides as Gladdentree notes everything down that has to be delivered, “We’ve got some in the Black Lake.”

“Do you?” Mildred peers closer at her new bag, smiling when the ‘mermaid’ reacts to her prodding hands, hissing at her with sharp teeth. One of the things she’s loving about the Wizarding World, as it’s called – even if that name makes her uneasy, aren’t _witches_ in charge in her world? – is that almost everything moves, that the artwork is interactive to a point.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” Gladdentree questions her as they go to leave. “Anything at all?”

“Uh,” Mildred thinks of what she has in her drawers at Cackle’s and abruptly, she realises something that’s missing and turns a little red. “Uhm…pyjamas and…underwear.”

“Of course,” Mr Gladdentree says, however, completely professional even as Professor Hagrid suddenly goes into a coughing fit. He writes both suggestions into his notebook, before finally shutting it. “All your belongings will come with a guaranteed growth charm, meant to accommodate up to three inches in length and two inches in width, made for growing witches and wizard with a warranty of up to two years – which is better than any of my competitors in Britain! Thank-you for shopping at Gladrags today, expect your purchases by tomorrow afternoon!”

“Thank-you,” Mildred says, waving as they leave the shop.

“Usually, I’d take you to Diagon Alley, but we’ve already begun the school year,” Professor Hagrid grunts. “Don’t have no time to trudge through Diagon Alley and it’s not like the shops will stock as much school listings anymore. Dumbledore’s already ordered some things for you, like an extended trunk and a cauldron and stuff. Your books should come tomorrow morning, so you can get some reading in before classes on Monday.”

“That’s good,” Mildred says, relieved. At least at _this_ new school, she’ll have time to prepare. She wonders why she needs her _own_ cauldron, however. “Where are we going now, then?”

Professor Hagrid grins at her. “Honeydukes.”

When they return to Hogwarts on a horseless carriage, Mildred is in the middle of a sugar-high – probably not the best thing to be on, considering how late at night it is. Going to Honeydukes stopped her from yawning so much, though. In the entrance hall, pockets laden with sweets, they come face to face with a witch that reminds Mildred of Miss Hardbroom _far_ more than Professor Snape did.

“Rubeus,” she scolds him, Glaswegian accent obvious enough that Mildred feels a thrill run up her spine, remembering her mum’s ex-girlfriend from Anniesland, all of a sudden. “Really?”

Professor Hagrid scoffs. “She’s a second year and a new one at that. It’s not like she knows an older year who can go buy her some sweets. Mildred,” Professor Hagrid introduces her to the witch, “meet your Head of House and Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall. Professor, this is Mildred Hubble.”

“Thank-you, Rubeus,” she says, “I’ll take things from here.”

“Alright, then,” he says, Mildred waving as he does.

“Thank-you for taking me to Hogsmeade!” she says, smiling. Professor Hagrid chuckles, before lumbering off back outside. She watches the Entrance Hall doors shut, before pondering why he’s going out. “Where is he going?”

“Hagrid has a home on site,” Professor McGonagall says. “Now, this way, Miss Hubble. You’ll be sharing a dorm with the other Gryffindor second years.”

“Oh, okay,” Mildred says, taken aback. Sharing? _I’ve never shared a room with someone before._ “How many?”

“There are currently twelve second year girls, who you would have met at dinner had you not needed to be taken to the Hospital Wing to fix your nose,” Professor McGonagall says, leading her up a grand staircase. Mildred mouths _twelve_ under her breath, hoping the room is large, in her head once more thanking Madam Pomfrey for fixing her face. “There are eleven boys. The dorms are separated and the boys cannot go up the staircase to the girls’ rooms.”

“What about the boys staircase?” Mildred questions.

Professor McGonagall glances at her, “Historically, the girls quarters were for teachers. The enchantments were written into the tower during the founding of the school, when witches were apprenticed under other witches – Godric Gryffindor inhabited Gryffindor Tower and therefore, the wards were set against wizards.”

“That’s interesting!” Mildred says, reaching into her pocket for a Taffy Twizzler, a long, stretchy piece of candy that explodes in her mouth like popping candy – but sparks let off, exiting her mouth in a myriad of colours. Almost _testing_ this teacher, she chews off the end, glancing at Professor McGonagall, who purses her lips tightly.

“Unless you have Ice Mice to offer, put that away,” she says and Mildred’s hand dive into her large robe pockets that Mr Gladdentree told her were magically extended with a warranty of a year, finding the wriggling brown paper bag with Ice Mice in them. Holding it out to the teacher, Professor McGonagall partakes, Mildred watching as a small smile slips onto her face. “Thank-you.”

“Your welcome.” Mildred says chipperly, putting them back. Her mind turns back to her time in Gladrags. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“What war were they talking about?” Mildred questions, wanting to know. Professor McGonagall puts a hand out, resting it on the staircase banister as it turns abruptly in mid-air.

“The war…” Professor McGonagall starts, voice haggard. “You were sheltered from news, I assume?”

“A bit,” Mildred says quietly, holding onto the banister too as the staircase clicks back into place in front of a brown door. Professor McGonagall glances at the surrounding portraits before nodding, leading her forwards.

“We’ll find our way up another way,” she says, “you’ll learn the castle in time. There are a variety of routes, though that particular staircase has a habit of shifting between the paths to Gryffindor Tower and Ravenclaw Tower, respectively. As for the war – it is a continuation of the last war we fought against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or _You-Know-Who._ ”

Mildred shivers. “He must be scary if people call him _You-Know-Who._ What’s his real name?”

“…Lord Voldemort,” Professor McGonagall whispers, but not quiet enough it seems, as a portrait screams to Mildred’s left, before they leave that corridor, turning into another and then coming out in the giant ravine of staircases, again. “Don’t say it, however. He is a Dark Wizard of particular power and there was a trace put on his name, last time. Whenever you said it, his acolytes would appear and the wards protecting you may or may not fail, depending on their strength. They would kill you or kidnap you, depending on who you were.”

“That’s horrible,” Mildred says, feeling uncomfortable. This world that Ethel has sent her to – what kind of world is this? How safe is it for her to be here if there’s such dangerous magic being used? Even the fancy, new, magic clothes and uniforms can’t make up for being sent here. _I want to go home._

“Many died that way, so do not say his name,” Professor McGonagall says strictly, actually stopping to turn to Mildred. “Do you understand, Miss Hubble? You must _not_ say his name.”

“I understand, Professor,” Mildred says, swallowing the lump growing in her throat. She decides to change the subject, “I- I don’t have any pyjamas. Not until tomorrow.”

Professor McGonagall’s stern look softens, evaporating. “I’m sure one of your dorm-mates will lend you a set.” Her hand comes to rest on Mildred’s shoulder and she steps a little closer, leading her towards Gryffindor Tower. “Let’s get a move on, now.”

They go up to the Tower and the journey has Mildred huffing and puffing extra hard, the sugar-rush helping up until the last staircase, where they stop to talk to a portrait of a larger lady from Greece painted in a soft pink dress. As they approach, Mildred sees the lady reach up casually to a hanging line of grapes that line one side of her portrait, popping several large, red grapes into her mouth.

“Dilligrout,” Professor McGonagall says staunchly, the lady waving cheerily with full cheeks as the portrait opens inwards. They step up into the corridor behind the portrait, walking down into a warm space. Mildred peers at the room as they enter.

It’s a tall space with tall windows covered in dark gold curtains. On the wall, there’s a large tapestry of wizards fighting against knights in shining armour, transfiguring them into animals before the tapestry resets. A bookshelf sits beside a large divot into the wall, where some students do their homework at tables, sitting on bench seats. There are a few other tables with bench seats and armchairs littered around the common area, but there’s also two sofa sets – one near the corridor they exit and one next to it, in front of a roaring fireplace.

Over said roaring fireplace is a ginormous mirror and as Mildred’s eyes lock on it, she realises she’s been quite stupid, hasn’t she? Slipping out of Professor McGonagall’s grip, she hurries over, standing up on the coffee-table to get closer, hands rising up as she draws her magic from inside, coming up with a spell on the spot, desperate and wishing so _very_ hard it works.

“ _Moonlight through the window clear, fire below the shining mirror;  
Show my teachers and my friends, a mirror booth – a view that bends!_ ”

Mildred’s hands sway side to side, then shoot forwards, pink sparks pushing off her finger tips to swirl around the mirror. With bated breath, she watches the glass go cloudy, the students around her all whispering in confusion.

“What’s she doing?”

“Was that a spell?”

Professor McGonagall steps forwards, hesitant, putting a hand on Mildred’s elbow, about to speak when the mirror suddenly swirls and shakes ominously and Mildred feels a _tug_ and a deep cold inside that has her collapsing to her knees, still on the coffee table as she shivers. The room is warm, but Mildred is _cold._

On the mirror, Miss Hardbroom’s classroom appears and Mildred thinks, _I’ve appeared in the mirror behind her desk._ To her surprise, however, she sees not only Miss Hardbroom, but also Miss Pentangle – and her mother!

“Mum?” she croaks, “Miss Hardbroom?”

Miss Hardbroom looks up from the potion, locking eyes with her. “ _Mildred?_ ”

“Miss Hardbroom, it’s me,” Mildred smiles painfully, the cold hurting her insides. She looks down at her hands, feeling and _seeing_ frost running up the numb digits. “I don’t understand. What’s happening to me?”

“ _Pippa, keep making the potion,_ ” Miss Hardbroom says to Miss Pentangle as she and her mother step forwards, closer to the mirror.

 _“Mildred, where are you?_ ” Julie Hubble questions, distraught. “ _They brought me to the school and Ethel said she sent you to a different universe-”_

“She what?” Mildred questions, before her teeth start chattering.

“ _Mildred,_ ” Miss Hardbroom interrupts, pushing her mother out of the way. “ _The Wishing Globe sent you to a different universe and you have opened a connection between our mirrors with your own magic. It is too much for a young witch like yourself – your powers are still growing and you are not yet thirteen. I am coming, very, very soon. I will be closing this connection for your own good. Find a mirror that has already been enchanted._ ”

“But-” Mildred stutters, hearing her mother cry out before Miss Hardbroom shuts off the connection. The mirror swirls, going back to being a normal mirror and immediately, the frost that had grown up her arms recedes. She looks down at herself, confused and frightened.

“What in the world was that?” Professor McGonagall gasps. “What kind of witch are you?”

Mildred looks up at her new Head of House, looking around at the students of Hogwarts – witches and wizards who are uneasy at the sight of her, drawing wands from pockets and sleeves. Slipping off the coffee table, Mildred nearly pokes herself in the eye as a witch with dark skin like Enid’s points her wand strictly at Mildred’s face.

“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall barks, “put that away!”

The girl narrows her eyes at Mildred, before a teenaged boy with tan skin and livid white scar like mesh- like  _lightning_  all over his forehead grabs her wrist. Mildred recognises him as the boy who waved at her in the Great Hall at dinner.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he hisses, “she’s just a kid. What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

“That’s not how magic works,” Hermione argues, letting him move her wand away from Mildred as a thick lock of deep brown hair falls in front of her face messily, “she’s not a witch!”

Immediately, _instantly_ , anger swells in Mildred’s chest and she glares furiously at the older teen. “I _am_ a witch! How many times do I have to say it before someone believes me? I thought all this was _over!_ Just because I’m not from a witching family doesn’t make me any less a witch! I have magic, I can see the school! I _am_ a witch!”

Hermione balks, looking uncertain, “You’re a muggleborn?”

Mildred’s glare increases, before she feels a warmth on her arm _right_ where she was connected to Ethel less than twelve hours ago. Quickly, she forgets about replying to Hermione’s comment, having a feeling of utter dread before her arm _yanks_. Hermione yelps and then- then-

“Oh _no_ ,” Mildred groans as their arms stick together.

“What the hell?” Hermione questions, before she raises her wand, poking at their conjoined limbs. “Is this a sticking charm? What did you do?”

“Negative energy,” Mildred mopes, miserable. “I don’t even _know_ you. This is so _unfair_.”

“Miss Hubble,” Professor McGonagall captures her attention, just as brisk and unyielding as Miss Hardbroom – but still far less scary, in Mildred’s opinion. “Explain clearly and thoroughly why you are now attached to Miss Granger.”

“It’s the whole reason I’m here in the first place,” Mildred stamps her foot. “Ethel and I were fighting again and then Miss Cackle stuck us together in a Friendship Trap and _obviously_ , the way Ethel got rid of the trap with me didn’t _work_.”

Mildred stews for a moment, before explaining today's antics as quickly as possible. “Ethel and I used a magical artefact, trying to get the Trap to go away and it did, but Ethel also sent me here, to Hogwarts, when we used it. Miss Cackle said the Friendship Trap would only dissolve when the positive energy equalled the amount of negative energy used to activate it.”

“But what does that mean – ‘positive energy’?” Hermione demands. “And what kind of artefact sent you to Hogwarts?”

“We’re stuck together until we become friends,” Mildred clarifies, not wanting to talk about the Wishing Globe. She thinks that if she sees another green portal, she might panic – unless it takes her home, that is.

“Until we become _friends?_ ” Hermione questions, sceptical, looking to Professor McGonagall. “Professor, can you…unstick us?”

Professor McGonagall eyes them, looking to Mildred. “Your magic is different to normal magic. That woman – Miss, _Hardbroom_ , was it?”

“She’s my potions teacher,” Mildred mumbles, nodding.

“Well, then, this Professor Hardbroom said you were from another universe,” Professor McGonagall says, puffing up. “Much odder things have happened. How else can this _trap_ be released?”

“Miss Hardbroom isn’t a professor – we just call them all Miss,” Mildred corrects, “and Miss Cackle, our Headmistress at Cackle’s Academy, she’s the only one who can make it go away. It was self-activating, for when Ethel and I next fought really badly. We were being _disruptive._ ”

“Hey, kind of like Harry and Malfoy,” says a ginger boy on a nearby sofa, sniggering as the boy who waved at Mildred scowls at him.

“Indeed,” Professor McGonagall says under her breath, before looking around the common room to the students, raising her voice. “None of this is to leave the Tower. If I hear a _whisper_ of any of this to the other Houses, you may endanger Miss Hubble. We can’t afford to have any of You-Know-Who’s spies even _think_ that travel to other universes is possible.”

Professor McGonagall looks back to Mildred, eyes like a hawk. “Hogwarts is safe, but it is not secure. A fake wand will be procured. Do _not_ use any more of your own magic, unless you are in Gryffindor Tower or it is an emergency.”

“Yes, Professor,” Mildred promises, biting her lip. _You-Know-Who is a bad wizard, a…a terrorist. They’re in a middle of a war._ “It’s really this bad?”

“It is,” Professor McGonagall states, before looking to her arm, which is awkwardly connected to the taller Hermione’s. “You have permission to stay up late, if it means making a new friend and dissolving this enchantment. If it does not, use a house-elf to inform me and arrangements will be made to make sleeping arrangements easier.”

Mildred and Hermione share a glance at _sleeping arrangements_ , before they both look sharply at Hermione’s two guy friends who snicker between them.

“Potter, Weasley,” Professor McGonagall addresses, “would you like to be put under a similar spell with second-years? I’m sure it would be a learning experience for both of you.”

“Sorry- sorry Hermione,” the ginger boy says, still snickering. “Sorry, second-y.”

“That’s not even a proper word,” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Firsties are firsties, yes, that’s universally acknowledged – but second years are just second years. You’re a prefect, Ron, you should address people properly.”

“And my name’s Mildred,” Mildred adds, “not _second-y._ Hermione’s right, that’s not a proper word.” Mildred pauses, glancing up at her, “People get called ‘firsties’ in my universe too, so it’s…inter-universally?”

Hermione blinks, before she smiles at her, “That’s amazing! What else is the same?”

“I don’t know,” Mildred says, happy to find something good to talk about, “Hogsmeade was kind of old-fashioned, but it was _magical_ , so I don’t know.”

“Hogsmeade is a little old-fashioned,” Hermione agrees, “especially compared to the non-magical world.”

“I believe I’ll leave you here,” Professor McGonagall says, twisting away with one last word to everyone as she exits, “Not one word!”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” comes a few dozen voices at the same time, before the portrait door down the small corridor opens and closes again. Mildred bites her lip, looking up at Hermione, remembering what the Sorting Hat told her to do.

“I forgot to ask,” she says, “the Sorting Hat asked me to ask Professor Dumbledore the date. It’s the fourth of September, in my universe!”

“Really?” Hermione eyebrows lift high on her forehead, before she tugs Mildred to sit down on the sofas, the boy who waved shuffling out of the way to sit on an armchair as they sit down. “It’s the twentieth, today!”

“The _twentieth?_ ” Mildred exclaims, before doing maths in her head. “So…it’s Thursday? It was a Tuesday for me, before I came to this universe!”

Hermione frowns. “It’s a Friday…no, it must have been a Wednesday. Our universes can’t be so minutely different that it’s a different _day._ ”

“It was a Tuesday,” Mildred says, adamant. “It’s my second day of school – I know it’s a Tuesday because the day before yesterday, when I arrived on Sunday and broke the East Wing, it was the second. I’ve had it on my calendar since I came back home for the summer.”

Ron snorts, “You broke the East Wing?”

Mildred cringes, waving her hands a little, moving one of Hermione’s too in the motion. “It was an accident and it wasn’t my fault, not _really!_ Agatha’s spell left dark magic in the school and I just sped up the explosion!”

“The _explosion?_ ” the boy who waved asks in disbelief. “How did you explode your own school?”

“It was an _accident,_ ” Mildred grimaces. “And it wasn’t even a real explosion – I just vanished the flag-pole because I was stuck, hanging off it by my cloak and vanishing it caused a chain-reaction from the left-over dark magic that made the East Wing fall down. So it _really_ wasn’t me, I _promise._ ”

Ron grins, “Sounds like Harry and Neville put together.”

“Me and Neville put together?” the boy who waved – Harry – repeats, shaking his head. “That’s an image.”

“Who’s Neville?” Mildred asks.

“Friend of ours, same year,” Harry says, “born July thirtieth, nineteen eighty, day before me. It’s kind of weird, actually. A lot of stuff could have happened differently if he was born on the thirty-first…” Harry trails off, but Mildred frowns.

“Nineteen _eighty?_ ” Mildred queries, “But wouldn’t that make you like, thirty-something?”

Harry makes a confused face. “Thirty-something? I’m sixteen.”

“…oh no,” Mildred can’t _actually_ believe this is happening. “Is this the past, as well? I can’t _believe_ I time-travelled again. _Ugh._ ”

“Time travel? When are you from?” Hermione questions as she thumps back into the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, “When’s your birthday?”

“November thirtieth, two thousand and six,” she says blankly. _I can’t believe I travelled through time. **Again**._

“You won’t be born for another ten years,” Hermione says, obviously fascinated. “What’s the future like? Who’s the Prime Minister?”

“Theresa May,” Mildred says, grimacing. “She’s not a very good Prime Minister. Mum hates her. At least in America they got Hillary Clinton.”

“…oh my god,” Hermione says, stunned. “ _Women_ in places of power, in the muggle world?”

Mildred shifts her head so she can look at her, nodding. “Yeah. The future is really cool. I mean, my mum’s bisexual and our neighbours didn’t even care when she had a girlfriend. Mum says it’s a lot different from the eighties, or even the nineties.”

“It is,” Hermione says softly, before slowly – ever so slowly – a smile blooms on her face. “ _Thank-you_ , thank-you for telling me that.”

Mildred smiles back at her. “You’re welcome.”

Then, two things happen simultaneously. The first is less obvious, as the second distracts from the first. Hermione and Mildred’s arms detach. But at the same time, making the fireplace burn green and a red light appear in the air – a line between Mildred and the fire – a portal appears.

“What the hell?” Harry stands up, wand in hand, closely followed by his friends and many other students.

Mildred can only watch as, within five seconds of last speaking, Hecate Hardbroom steps into Gryffindor Common Room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not proofread lol

“Why did you do that?” Julie snaps at her, pushing at her arm viciously, “Why did you hang up on her like that? She was scared!”

Hecate stumbles slightly, gritting her teeth as she catches herself on the desk. “Mildred was using up what small amount of magic she has within her own body to fuel that spell. The girls are given mirror booth credits for a _reason_ – it’s too dangerous for young children to hold onto connections. You saw the ice.”

Julie swallows, “What- what did it mean?”

“It meant her magic was being drained,” Hecate says, trying to be patient with this ordinary woman who is Mildred Hubble’s mother. _I have a responsibility for Mildred,_ Hecate thinks, _but so does she._ “Did you see where she was?”

“Some kind of living room, I think,” Julie says, curling her arms around herself, disguising it by crossing her arms somewhat. Hecate sees straight through it and looks to Pippa for help, far from equipped for handling fragile adults – children and teenagers she can handle, but fully grown human beings? _No._ “She was wearing a uniform.”

“Red and black,” Hecate says. “It wasn’t any uniform I recognised. She was also not afraid of doing magic in front of all those people. I believe most were in a similar outfit. A school – a school of magic, perhaps.”

“They can’t have accepted her into their ranks so quickly,” Pippa says from her cauldron, voice barely present as she focuses on her brewing. “It’s only been a few hours – four at the most.”

Hecate’s mind tumbles and turns. “Unless she stumbled upon the school in a similar fashion as she did Cackle’s. Mildred Hubble is adept in blending in.”

“Well, she just blew her own cover, if she did,” Julie says starkly. “How long until the potion?”

“Minutes,” Pippa says, standing up straight, gaze not leaving the surface of the potion. Hecate steps over, grimacing at the copper tang of the fumes, eyeing the murky red surface. Her magic fizzles and stretches out her body, uncomfortable and far from happy. Hecate struggles to contain it – to keep some form of _order._

“Dark magic,” Hecate whispers in distaste, familiar with this sensation. Beside her, Julie shivers.

“Is that what that is? It feels _nasty._ ”

Hecate glances at the ordinary woman, frowning. “You shouldn’t be able to feel it.”

“Oh, I feel it,” Julie confirms, staring at the bubbling concoction. Pippa turns the flame off the moment it begins to turn a soft orange, the precious liquid turning to gold the second the flame disappears. “Now _that_ is cool to watch.”

Hecate considers it. Colour change is far from scarce, especially in a potions lab, however Hecate tries to see it from the other woman’s perspective – seeing a potion change hue for the first time, experiencing it as an adult rather than as a child. Oddly enough, Hecate feels lighter for it when she slots her emotions into place, empathetic to the small wonder Julie must be feeling at the sight.

“I suppose it is,” she admits.

Pippa offers Hecate the ladle for the cauldron, summoning a small piece of paper, handing that over too. Hecate takes it, reading the spell, feeling mildly uncomfortable at the contents.

“We have to find Mildred quickly,” Pippa says, reaching around the cauldron to take Julie’s arm, tugging her away from the station. “Five feet distance,” she says to the ordinary woman, “minimum. Hecate will drink some of the potion, then activate the spell.”

“How?”

“A series of words, like any other spell,” Pippa explains, “Though, she’ll have to deal with the side-effects on her system, from the dark magic.”

“I can handle it,” Hecate says briskly, but finds herself unable to deny that the darkness – the _malice_ and bad history that stains the natural balance of the potion – makes her stomach curls. _Get on with it,_ she orders herself.

Using the ladle to drink some of the potion, Hecate tries to ignore the way it takes just like blood – all copper and iron in her mouth, burning from the acidity, but cool otherwise. _It’s just a potion, it’s just a potion,_ Hecate thinks, repeating the words like a mantra in her head. She ignores how her magic reacts to the strange spell-to-be, absorbing it and waiting, even as it prods and pokes at the essence of Julie Hubble after completely bypassing the too-familiar horridness of consuming darkness.

 _Perseverance,_ Hecate can’t help but think, _kindness, shrewdness, bitterness. Bravery and grief. Love, possessiveness._ Julie is many things, a concoction of a life full of sadness and one bright spark. _Mildred,_ Hecate thinks, knows. Her hands raise and her magic thrums through her bones as she reads the activation spell from the paper, thinking solely of Mildred Hubble.

“ _Blood and magic,_  
What is lost now is found.  
Blood and magic,  
Take me to common ground.

 _Child of mine,_  
Of magic and truth,  
Child of mine,  
Of rebellious youth.

_I cannot see you, you cannot shout,  
You are lost and now you are found._

_Blood and magic,_  
Child of mine,   
Blood and magic,  
Of mine, of mine.

_I am your mother, child of mine,  
I am the moon upon which you should shine._

_Blood and magic, magic mine,  
Take me to where my sun should rise!_ ”

Throughout the entire incantation, her magic rises, swaying inside her like an ocean. Hecate underestimates the drain it’s going to have – what power she can already see will be leeched from her system – but it’s nothing debilitating. Green fire licks at her hands, before she feels the motions draw out of her naturally, hands curving into an oval.

Hecate creates a portal through the walls of the worlds.

“…wow,” Julie says, when her arms drop. The portal is tall enough that Hecate could easily step through and the drain of keeping it open is surprisingly light – though, she supposes it is _ripping_ a hole that would take the most power. “And that’ll lead to Millie?”

“It will,” Hecate says with certainty, feeling the potion roll in her stomach, the darkness like an endless chasm – aching and despairing. She grimaces, magic heating under her skin, awaiting her leave to purge the unwanted maw. _It is the connection, though,_ Hecate thinks, not knowing what kind of potion this truly is to know if it safe for her magic to burn away the after-effects. For all she knows, doing so will snap her connection with the portal.

Pippa approaches once more, hand curling around her shoulder. Hecate shudders, feeling her magic – so light, so _soft_ compared to her own, which is already tainted by the blood magic she’d ingested. Pippa rubs at her collar soothingly, drawing her into a hug.

“The effect should wear off when you find Mildred,” Pippa assures. “Then you’ll be back to normal.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Hecate nods, hugging her back. Of course, then she thinks, _how will we get back?_ It causes a horrible feeling in her gut, separate from the darkness and she clutches at Pippa before realising, _this could be it._ Witches have gone to other universes and never returned.

“Pippa, I love you,” she says, before actually _thinking_ about what she wants to say. Almost as if she were under some kind of enchantment, Hecate says everything she wished she’d said at seventeen. “I love you. I have always loved you. I’m so, _so_ sorry I ran away, that I let my own fears take over my life. You never deserved that.”

Pippa tenses and Hecate releases her, as if scalded. _What in Circe’s name did I just do?_ Hecate swallows, eyes wide as she glances at the portal – her way out, her way to run away, _right now_.

“Hiccup, no-” Pippa grabs her wrist before she even moves. “Hecate,” she breathes, eyes wide. “I didn’t- I thought- Hecate, all this time I thought you liked _wizards._ ”

The absurdity of Pippa’s words are what breaks Hecate from her stupor. “Wizards?” she questions, insulted. “ _Wizards?_ ” She repeats, even more disgusted. “The only wizard I’d willingly spend time with outside my own family is Algernon and even then! Me, liking _wizards,_ truly?” Hecate _laughs._

Pippa herself looks faintly furious and Hecate feels _bold_. She feels like raising her hands to Pippa’s -reddening cheeks and kissing that expression off her face. So, she does and Pippa’s lips are soft and sweet, like cherry and raspberry. _That’s from her lipstick,_ Hecate thinks, before the portal tugs at her magic, as if in warning.

Their lips part and Pippa follows her, floating forwards, but Hecate steps away.

“One week,” she reminds her old friend – the woman she has loved since she was a girl – a giddy smile curling into existence, before she sees Julie Hubble. Her smile fades slightly, but Julie looks…happy, supportive. “I’m going to get your daughter back, Mistress Hubble.”

“I know you will,” Julie says, smile dimming slightly. “Tell her I love her.”

And that, of course, is when Hecate’s normal self leaks through again. _Ah, yes. Love._ She purses her lips, but nods.

“Of course.” Hecate says, looking to the still shell-shocked Pippa, whose lipstick is smudged, dark purple smudged alongside pink. Hecate fixes her own make-up at the sight with a sliver of magic, winged eyeliner extra fine along her eyelids before she speaks to the other teacher. “Pippa. We’ll talk when I return. Truly talk.”

“…yes,” Pippa agrees faintly. “Yes, we will.”

And then, Hecate steps through the portal, leaving the cool potions laboratory for a warm, full common room. The magic cuts off quite immediately and she feels it deep in her chest, the darkness still bubbling away and her lips tingling from kissing Pippa – Pippa, who she now regrets leaving behind with Julie, even if it’s for the good of Mildred.

Right in front of her, kneels said young witch on a square coffee table and Hecate wants to sigh in relief.

Instead, Hecate straightens, feeling a strange magic settle around her, sinking into her skin and… _absorbing._ It’s ambient magic, for sure, the ambient magic of thousands of young witches and wizards from throughout the ages. It’s sunk into the building around her – a castle, she quickly realises, seeing a window and outside it, a large valley from a high height. It’s that specific height and distance, along with the cosy stone walls and the magic that stretches out and out for an age that makes her believe it’s a castle and a large one, at that.

 _So much magic._ Hecate reaches out needlessly, pointlessly flicking her wrist, using the magic around her rather than the magic inside of her to distribute the dark magic that remains in her system around her. Purging it is easy – using the ambient to draw it out of her is far kinder to her system than expelling it, however.

She’s mindful of the students around her, though and the darkness is directed into the fireplace, turning it green. It’s then, with the absence of dark magic and the connection to the new, ambient magic that she notices the red trail between herself and her student. Julie’s blood clings to the crevices of her mouth, tasting like burning copper, only enhanced by this trail to her daughter.

“…Mildred Hubble,” Hecate says after a moment longer of contemplation, the words echoing quietly through the silent room. Her eyes draw up and down the girl, looking closer – for injuries, for any backlash the mirror spell had wrought upon her, for any clue as to what situation Ethel Hallow has dropped her into. _That uniform is unseemly for a young witch of Cackle’s Academy,_ she sneers. “What in Morgana’s name is that _thing_ you are wearing? You look like a _wizard._ ”

Mildred looks down at her clothes, eyes dropping then rising, just as quickly, before quite suddenly – she smiles, all brilliance and joy as she exclaims.

“Miss Hardbroom!” she scrambles to her feet, hands reaching out and her arms wrapping around her waist tightly. Hecate sways backwards dangerously, before getting her footing, noticing the thin red line between them disintegrate. “Oh, I thought no-one would ever come and find me! It’s been nearly a full, entire _day_ now!”

“It has only been a few hours,” Hecate replies, realising there must be a time differential. Her stomach drops. How long is a week in their world to this universe’s? If a few hours is a nearly a _day…_ “Ethel was detained and your mother was called,” she informs her immediately afterwards. “A meeting was called. We are in a different universe, Mildred.”

Mildred clings to her, looking up, smile becoming somewhat strained. “I know. Things are different here. The magical community is big and this is Hogwarts,” her fingers are curling into the back of Hecate’s dress now and the only reason Hecate allows it is because her own hands grip Mildred’s shoulders like a vice.

_Not my student. I will not lose her again._

“Hog…warts,” Hecate repeats slowly, wondering why someone would name their school as such. She looks up and around, away from Mildred, cataloguing the numerous whispering teenagers. Most are in the same black and red uniform that Mildred wears, but some are in out-of-hours clothes and one witch – older and most definitely not a student, perhaps around Hecate’s age or older – stands with a _wand_ in hand, is dressed in flowing emerald robes that look like they would catch up in her ankles should she run in them.

“Miss Hubble,” the other witch snaps shortly, “do you know this woman?”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall!” Mildred chirps and they are still clutching each other, despite how far past propriety things have gone. Hecate squeezes her shoulders ever so softly and Mildred bites her lip, jumping back, cringing. “Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

“It’s quite fine, Mildred. You’ve had a trying day,” Hecate says, catching the small yawn Mildred tries to hide behind her hand. “A _long_ and trying day.”

“I _am_ a little tired,” Mildred admits, quietly. “I was going to go to bed, once I met my new housemates. Mr- Professor Dumbledore, he’s the headmaster and he said it would be safer not to let the Ministry know I’m here – the Ministry of Magic, it’s like the Magic Council, but bigger.”

Hecate twitches. _A Ministry?_ “Housemates?” she instead questions.

Mildred opens her mouth to answer, but the other witch – ‘Professor McGonagall’ – interrupts with an annoyed cough.

“Perhaps this conversation would be better served among adults. Miss Granger, please escort Miss Hubble to the second year dorms to get settled in. Miss Hardbroom, if you would consent to follow me.”

“I do not consent,” Hecate says sharply, reaching out to grab Mildred’s shoulder once more, tugging her back near her as the young girl hesitates, looking between an older teenage girl and Hecate herself. “Mildred is _my_ student and _my_ responsibility.”

“Miss Hardbroom, they’re good,” Mildred says tentatively, “Please. They won’t hurt me.”

“It’s not all about _getting hurt,_ Mildred,” Hecate says, feeling a strange fire that isn’t her own. Frowning, she resolves to worry about it later, suspecting the potion is still working some magic of its own. Mildred looks at her with pleading eyes, however.

“Trust me,” she begs, reaching up to clutch at her wrists. “Hermione and I were just in the Friendship Trap and we broke it nearly _immediately_ and Professor McGonagall is the Deputy Headmistress, here, like you!”

“No-one is like me,” Hecate says lowly, but Mildred has always been perceptive when it comes to people. Why, she was the one to figure out Agatha’s scheming and when she was only in her first year, at that. “If I choose to trust you-”

Mildred’s face lights up, “Thank-you, Miss Hardbroom!”

“ _If_ ,” Hecate says, more firmly, “you must do everything I say, while we are here. There could be danger, threats we’re unaware of and your safety is of _utmost_ importance as my student and charge.”

Mildred is practically bouncing, “Anything, Miss Hardbroom! I promise!”

“Don’t swear so lightly,” Hecate warns gently, before looking to Professor McGonagall, nodding stiffly and offering a shallow, “ _Well met.”_

Professor McGonagall looks slightly perturbed at the traditional greeting, however, hesitating. “Well met…am I to assume you will be coming with me?”

“I will, on the condition that Mildred Hubble does not leave this tower at _any_ time, until I say so,” Hecate argues, waiting for the other witch to challenge her.

“Done,” Professor McGonagall says, however. “It’s past curfew and more than a few students in this common room should have been shuffled upstairs by prefects – which does include Hermione Granger, Miss Hubble’s new friend, as well as a Mr Ronald Weasley.” The witch lays a baleful look upon a young red-headed wizard, who sits up straighter from his slumped position on the armchair to Hecate’s left. “Round up the rest of the younger years, for Pete’s sake, Mr Weasley. Being a prefect is a _responsibility_ , not an award.”

“If it was an award, Professor, I would have won it ages ago,” Ronald Weasley says with a grin, getting to his feet quickly and bellowing. “Oi, if any first, second, third or fourth years are in this common room by the time McGonagall leaves, I’ll volunteer your names to help Filch mop the halls!”

 _Appalling,_ Hecate thinks, grimacing at the young wizard’s composure. Professor McGonagall likewise rolls her eyes.

“I believe you need to work on your language, Mr Weasley, but the sentiment was there, at least Now, _actually_ get them upstairs.”

“Yes, Professor,” Mr Weasley says, smile wilting as he trudges over to a booth where some young wizards are obviously trying to turn away to avoid being seen – an obvious sign they’re younger, as the rest of the room aren’t even making a point of _secretively_ eyeing Hecate and Mildred. Hecate watches Miss Granger roll her eyes, before holding a hand out to Mildred.

“Come on, Mildred. I’ll show you to the second year dorm,” she says. Mildred immediately looks to Hecate, who stiffly nods, prying her hand off the young witch’s shoulder. Mildred slips away, Miss Granger leading her towards a double set of spiral staircases. Her wizard’s robes trail behind her gently, but they fit her well, Hecate has to admit – even if she looks better in her Cackle’s uniform.

That could be her pride talking, though. Or maybe not.

“Follow me, Miss Hardbroom,” Professor McGonagall instructs and then Hecate is following this other witch, leaving Mildred behind bare minutes after finding her. It makes butterflies grow in her stomach and _these feelings aren’t hers._

What did that potion _do?_

* * *

Albus Dumbledore is an elderly man, somewhat similar to the Great Wizard in appearance, yet there’s an air to him – where the Great Wizard is authority and arrogance rolled into one, this _professor_ is far more _shadowy._ Hecate can imagine him to be something like a puppet-master, using silken words, perhaps. If not for the multicoloured robes that disarm her in their vibrant intensity, for a moment, she would have been far more wary.

Mildred’s magic lingers in his office. Hecate pinpoints a neon shag rug poking out under the headmaster’s desk and huffs, wondering when it became an acceptable concept in her mind that Mildred creating such monstrosities is _normal._

“It’s an interesting concept, travelling between universes,” Dumbledore states, twirling the end of his long beard around his fingers, tucking it into his belt a moment later. “And you say it’s… _not unusual_ , in your home universe?”

“Far from it,” Hecate replies shortly. She’s sat across from him and Professor McGonagall is fidgeting off his shoulder, the only one standing amongst them. Her eyes drift upwards, however, as a ghostly figure floats through the walls. Her gaze becomes fixed.

“Headmaster, I do hope I’m not interrupting,” the ghost addresses Dumbledore and Hecate believes he may or may not have been some kind of ordinary monk, from the way he dresses. The ghost looks at Hecate, briefly. “But my fellows are worried that more of these strangers may appear. Should we be on watch?”

“Yes,” Hecate says, gaining the attention of the ghost. “My…friend, her name is Pippa Pentangle. She’s a witch with an obsession with pink. She should appear in the next few weeks, if Mildred Hubble and I are not already gone. Mildred’s mother may also be with her, an ordinary woman by the name of Julie.”

“…oh, I see,” the ghost frowns. “And others are true intruders?”

“Most probably,” Hecate says, before the headmaster raises a hand.

“Pardon me, but this is a dangerous situation. Outside the boundaries of this school – no, inside it, as well – there is a magical war going on. If your appearance is made public, the Dark Lord Voldemort may attempt to cross universes in search of more power. There must be a way for you to contact your colleagues to inform them of this danger.”

Hecate’s breath hitches. “A _war?_ ” she gasps, eyes flashing. “How dangerous?”

“This is the second war against this creature, who I hesitate to call a man anymore,” Dumbledore says gravely, “or perhaps, this is only the continuation of the last war. Before, we have had Dark Lords of immense power – Grindelwald was one, defeated when Voldemort was in his last year of school here.”

“Two Dark Lords in one century,” one of the talking portraits moans, “such death and despair!”

“The Wizarding World has been set back tremendously,” Dumbledore nods in agreement. “Have you a route home that can be taken quickly?”

Hecate purses her lips. “There are many routes. It is choosing the most appropriate one that is the problem – Mildred is young, but she is powerful and her magic has not even gone through it’s first maturity. This world also effects things. Do you celebrate Old Holidays, here?”

Dumbledore’s brow creases, “Such practices were lost to the ages. They were going out of fashion long before even Merlin attended Hogwarts.”

“I see,” Hecate grimaces. “What of the ley lines?”

“…ley lines,” Dumbledore’s eyes glint. “I have no knowledge of your world, but here, where Hogwarts stands, is the most powerful nexus of ley lines in this corner of the world.”

A heartbeat passes. Hecate throat catches and her mind goes blank. Then- an explosion of thought, air leaving her lungs as she processes his words.

“Oh Morgana,” she whispers, thinking of her mother’s family home, set in the hidden valley where all the ley lines connect. Behind Dumbledore, the moon shines through a large window and suddenly the mountains are familiar – Hecate sees the shape of them in the dark and knows there are caves out there, full of bats and in one of them, a fossilised dragon corpse, crawling towards the darkness in a bid for death.

Around her, the magic of the school thrums with recognisable energy and it _welcomes_ Hecate, as she reaches for that familiar feeling of _home._

“Miss Hardbroom?”

Dumbledore pulls her gently from her own thoughts and Hecate nods sharply. “I can get us home. Safely, securely. I can do it. But I have to wait until Samhain. I will prepare in the meantime, if you let me.”

“May we be privy to your plans?” Dumbledore asks respectfully, hands clasped in front of him. Hecate tilts her head.

“You don’t know my branch of magic well enough to understand it,” she says.

“I understand that young Mildred can cast spells of this world, using her magic,” Dumbledore says, motioning to the ghost, “The Fat Friar here told her of a lighting spell himself. The _lumos_ charm worked perfectly, even despite her lack of wand.”

“If Mildred Hubble ever deigns to use a focus,” Hecate bristles, “I will assign and oversee a _year’s_ worth of detention with her. Mildred is a witch and young witches do not use _wands_ or _staves._ They are tools and tools can become crutches _far_ too easily.”

“A sentiment I would agree with, a century ago,” Dumbledore replies, obviously curious at her words, even if Professor McGonagall looks fit to bursting. “However, the magical world is in decline, purely because of how many of us are left. We do not have time to worry about using foci, when more pressing issues are at hand.”

“Multitask,” Hecate’s lip curls. “You are headmaster of this school, _this school_. It is based on one of the most powerful groupings of ley lines in the world and all the children who leave this academy of magic leave it stronger for it – a strength which is useless once their precious _wands_ are taken from them.”

“Magical cores need stabilisers,” Professor McGonagall bristles. “And wands aren’t sentient enough to affect their chosen witch or wizard, unlike familiars.”

“Familiars are lifelong companions and a way to teach the children responsibility,” Hecate immediately counters. “It’s tradition at Cackle’s Academy for our girls to be gifted a familiar in the form of cats.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore blinks, leaning back in his chair. “Does this mean that Miss Hubble’s familiar is roaming the castle?”

Hecate stalls, “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Hubble’s familiar – if she is indeed without a bonded wand, then she shall need her familiar,” Dumbledore says simply. “Is her cat somewhere within Hogwarts, transported with her or you, in fact?”

The sinking in her stomach feels like dread. “No,” Hecate says, mouth full of cotton. _No, no, no…I didn’t think this through properly, I should have waited, I should have made a proper plan rather than rushing head first into another universe._ “No, Tabby is not here,” she mutters.

 _For that matter, neither is Morgana,_ Hecate thinks, her own familiar probably suffering the ill effects of being separated from her mistress in such a manner. Tabby as well – though likely, Morgana, as the longer-bonded animal, is suffering worse. Hecate, unlike Mildred though, can survive without her familiar. Soon, Mildred’s magic will become erratic, the balance tipping. Mildred will have magical outbursts, ones that could endanger both herself and those around her.

“She needs a wand,” Professor McGonagall advocates strongly. “At least until you both return home. It will help her blend in, too.”

Hecate feels queasy, but in her sleeve, a long-looked over device stirs. Her magic prickles and Hecate warily, eyeing both teachers, draws it from her wrist.

“ _Oh_ ,” Dumbledore reaches up to adjusts his glasses. “Well…”

Hecate twirls her wand, the magic thrumming and spiralling up through her arm and then through the silver of the device. At the end, a moon lights up, made of starlight and magic.

“Mildred can use mine,” Hecate says, transfixed for bare moments, before she puts it back in her sleeve. She wants to forget it immediately, but having it close, especially as it wakes up from slumber, makes her recall happier times from after leaving Mistress Broomhead’s apprenticeship behind. Using her wand in potion-making again, duelling with her sisters in the cold mountain forests in bare feet…

“Hypocrite!” Professor McGonagall splutters, “What were you just saying before- dear _Merlin._ ”

“I do not endorse using wands all the time,” Hecate says, a thread of warning worming its way into her voice. “And I am far from _dependant_ on it.”

“Enough,” Dumbledore quickly shuts down Professor McGonagall’s incoming reply. “Till Halloween, we must co-exist. However, I do think it a good idea that Miss Hubble attend our institution until your leaving, if only to supplement what schooling that she may miss. It _is_ only September, after all.”

“I will need to review your curriculum before I even think about allowing that,” Hecate insists. “Mildred is from an ordinary family and is unfamiliar with magic. To her, magic has only existed for little over a year.”

“Muggleborn,” Professor McGonagall murmurs. “She and Miss Granger had somewhat of a…tussle. It was informative, if strange.”

 _What is ‘muggleborn’?_ Hecate wonders, before she speaks once more. “How will you explain my appearance? And Mildred’s?”

“I have already introduced Miss Hubble to the school,” Dumbledore says, smiling in amusement. “The poor girl tripped over and broke her nose in front of the lunch crowd. You, perhaps, can be some form of supplementary teacher or staff member. What _is_ your profession?”

“I am a Potions Mistress,” Hecate informs him, “though I am also the deputy of Cackle’s, as I have said.”

“Yes, well, we do already technically have _two_ Potions Masters in the school…” Dumbledore says, peering at her as he obviously tries to think up some scheme or other. He smiles suddenly. “How about we combine our interests? An instructor in magic – pure, foci-less magic. Each year group has at least two study session blocks in their everyday time-table. Hogwarts classes are long and arduous – the latest classes end at five o’clock.”

Hecate raises an eyebrow. “A truly long day. How do they keep focus?”

“Long breaks and lots of lunch, I believe,” Dumbledore chuckles. “What do you say, Professor Hardbroom?”

“That would be…adequate,” Hecate says, back straightening. A new goal forms in her mind, connected to her wish for the future of witchcraft to be great.

_I shall show these students that their wands are not everything – that they can do any magic they want – and hopefully, they will remember those lessons later in life, when they inevitably lose their wand or have it taken from them. Magic comes from within, not a piece of magical wood._

That goal sounds…worthy of her time, at least. Mildred comes first, but the future of magic in _any_ world is her concern now, it seems.

Hecate’s lip twitches.

_I’m a sucker for helpless souls, after all._


	5. Chapter 5

Mildred starts off the next morning sleepy and forgetful, comfortable in her warm, overly-soft bed. It’s only when she begins to wake, wondering _why_ it’s so comfy, does she remember the events of yesterday.

_Hogwarts. Ethel. Miss Hardbroom. Hermione and Professor McGonagall._

Tentatively, she wakes, peeking through the curtains surrounding her bed, looking out into the second year Gryffindor dorm. Most of the other beds have their curtains around them fully or partially, but one doesn’t – to be specific, a girl with gangly long legs lying sideways with her knees on the floor doesn’t. Mildred peers at her curiously for a while, wondering how she fell off without waking up.

Her attention eventually drifts, however, taking in the general mess around the room, trunks at the end of beds with clothes piled on top of them and desks between each of the beds in varying states. The one next to Mildred’s bed is piled up with books, a bright orange plastic bottle of water half-empty by her neighbours headboard. Mildred met her briefly last night to borrow pyjamas, but she can’t remember her name or much of what she looks like.

The dorm looks lived in. Mildred feels like she’s intruding, somehow, even though some of her new belongings blend in with the others sitting at the end of the bed, her mermaid satchel soundlessly snarling at nothing from where it hangs on the bed-frame corner.

Mildred startles when she hears a sudden buzzing, tipping forwards through the gap in her curtains onto the floor. Various groans and even one shout goes out, multiple calls for someone called ‘Art’ to turn her alarm off.

“Sorry, sorry, my wand’s in my bag,” one of the girls groans from across the room. Mildred orientates herself, kneeling on the carpeted floor, looking past the enclosed fireplace in the middle of the room to where an Asian girl with short green hair crawls on the ground, arm stretched under her bed for – presumably – her bag. Eventually, she gets it out, waving her wand almost immediately to stop the continuing _buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz._ ‘Art’ sighs, apologising again before accidentally meeting eyes with Mildred, blinking sleepily before frowning.

“There’s someone new in our dorm,” she says, the gangly girl who’d been half-off her bed immediately getting to her feet, wand in hand.

“Where?” she moves her arm around, not looking in Mildred’s direction. As she pushes her long, scraggly brown hair behind her ear, Mildred notices her eyes are a pearly colour, reflecting the light. _Is she blind?_

“By Paula’s bed, Jules,” Art says, other girls waking up at their conversation. Mildred swallows nervously. “Wait, you’re the new girl from yesterday, the universe-hopper.”

“The one who fell over?” Mildred’s neighbour, Paula, questions, opening her curtains to peer at her. “Did you fall _again?_ ”

“There was an alarm,” Mildred defends herself. “I got a surprise.”

Paula snorts, rubbing her eyes, crossing her legs. “I’m Paula. Paula MacDougal.  Mildred, right?”

“Mildred Hubble.”

“Hi Mildred,” Paula greets, various other good mornings coming from around the room, the gangly girl, Julie, staggering over, nearly tripping over a stray cat.

“ _Guten tag!_ ” Jules greets happily, “I’m not German, I just went there on holiday this summer.”

“I went camping in Wales,” Mildred replies, before Art joins them.

“I’m Art, or Arthur,” she says. “That’s Jules Monday. She’s blind, but just ignore it – unless she asks to borrow a book from you, then don’t, because she can’t read.”

“I can read, I just can’t see the letters,” Jules denies, sitting beside Paula on her bed, pulling one of her blankets over her shoulders. “You’re just mad about-”

“ _I want to sleep, shush!_ ” another girl nearby in the ring of beds says, voice muffled from behind their curtains. Mildred, eyeing Art on the floor beside her, gets up onto her bed before motioning the other girl up, intrigued by her bright green hair.

“So, what’s your magic like? Do you have a wand?”

“No,” Mildred answers, hesitant. “I mean, I could probably use one, but we don’t. Friar Rogers said I use… _wandless_ magic.”

“Ooh,” Paula hums, clapping. “Show us!”

“ _IT’S A SUNDAY, LET ME SLEEP!_ ” the same girl from before shouts. Art giggles behind her hands, before Julie scowls.

“The sun is up and you’re always sleeping! Do your homework or something!”

“ _Go away!_ ”

Jules sticks her tongue out, looking a little stupid before she shakes her head, speaking to Mildred. “That’s Yelena. She sucks at waking up properly.”

“Right,” Mildred crosses her legs like Paula, before thinking of something to show them. “What about this?” She looks to the orange water bottle and motions it over with her hand, the bottle zooming over for her to catch. She gets a few impressed noises from her dormmates, before she banishes it to Paula, Art pointing over to her bed.

“Can you get my toad? She’s in a bowl over there.”

“Don’t do that!” Paula immediately denies, making a face, “She’s icky. You don’t want her anywhere near your bedcovers.”

Art pouts, “But I miss her!”

“Visit her on your side of the room, then,” Paula folds her arms over her chest, glaring her down. Mildred looks between them, eyebrow raised, before she senses a familiar _something._ Straightening abruptly, Mildred twists just in time to see Miss Hardbroom appear on the other side of her bed.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

Miss Hardbroom looks over the small cluster of girls and then the dorm, her eyebrow twitching briefly, before she waves her wrist, summoning a set of clothes to Mildred’s lap.

“Get changed and meet me in the…common area, downstairs. You have ten minutes.” Miss Hardbroom disappears a moment later, Art whacking Mildred’s arm.

“How did she do that?” Art hisses, eyes abnormally wide. “You can’t apparate in Hogwarts?”

“What’s apparate?” Paula asks before Mildred can.

“Like teleporting,” Art replies, still looking at Mildred.

“Uh…” Mildred shrugs, “it’s magic? I don’t really know. She does it all the time. Miss Hardbroom’s really, really powerful, though.”

“Who is she?” Jules questions, “Tell us while you get dressed.”

“Uh, okay,” Mildred says, but the girls just sit where they are, looking away from her. Uncomfortable, she gets dressed as quickly as possible, only answering Jules’ question when she sits down to put on her striped socks from yesterday and shoes. The clothes that Miss Hardbroom had given her are strange as they aren’t hers or anything she recognises – maybe Miss Hardbroom conjured them from nothingness. Mildred doesn’t know if that’s something she can do, but maybe it is.

“She’s my teacher,” she eventually answers. “Potions. I should probably go down, she doesn’t like being kept waiting.

“ _That I don’t,_ ” her voice then decides to echo through the dorm, causing her dormmates to jump. Mildred, a little more used to it, sighs and waves at them.

“I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, sure,” Art waves along with the others, before she exits the dorm, going down the spiral staircase to meet Miss Hardbroom, who stands with a wizard.

He’s obviously another student, perhaps Hermione’s age, with flaxen hair and a spot of dirt on his cheek, in dark brown trousers and a woollen red and gold jumper. Miss Hardbroom eyes him carefully, standing a short distance away, even though his gentle face and small, if nervous, smile makes Mildred think him perfectly harmless

“Mildred,” she greets, “this wizard is Neville Longbottom. He will be our guide, today, to take us down to the Great Hall for breakfast and then onto what will be… _my classroom._ ”

“Your classroom?” Mildred questions, confused. “Aren’t we going home?”

“Breakfast first,” Miss Hardbroom replies. “I will answer all your questions afterwards.”

“…okay,” Mildred says, before looking to Neville, having a nagging feeling she’s heard his name before. “Hello. I’m Mildred.”

“Neville, good morning,” he says slowly, glancing at Miss Hardbroom before continuing his introduction, taking a deep breath. “I’m a sixth year. You’re in second year, right?”

“Yeah. Are you doing exams this year, does that mean?”

“No,” Neville replies, “I did my OWLs last year – NEWTs are next year. Do you have those in your world?”

“No, we don’t,” Miss Hardbroom answers in his place, frowning. “If you could lead us onwards, Mr Longbottom.”

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom, this way,” Neville says, contrite. “Come on.”

Neville leads them out of the common room, through a short tunnel and out from behind a large lady’s portrait – “That’s the Fat Lady,” Neville confides when they’re halfway down the stairs.

Mildred wrinkles her nose, unknowingly mimicking Miss Hardbroom behind her. “Isn’t that rude?”

Neville shrugs, “She’s never had another name, to us. She probably knows her own name, but she doesn’t bother telling anyone that asks – even the other portraits call her the Fat Lady.”

“Friar Rogers says people call him the Fat Friar, too,” Mildred informs him.

Neville blinks, bemused, “Really? Didn’t know that. Though, he’s the Hufflepuff ghost, not the Gryffindor ghost. Gryffindor has Nearly-Headless Nick.”

“ _Nearly_ headless?” Mildred’s eyes widen. “What happened to him?”

“He got beheaded with a blunt axe,” the wizard says, before whispering, “Don’t get him talking about it though – he’ll complain about how he got rejected from the Headless Horsemen again. He got another declination.”

“Declination?” the young witch questions.

“They said no to his application, Miss Hubble,” Miss Hardbroom clears up her confusion, sounding amused. “What does this ‘Nearly-Headless Nick’ refer to himself as?”

“He’s fine with Nick, usually – or Sir Nick,” Neville explains, before admitting, chagrin, “He’s got a big, long name, but I can never remember it.”

Mildred thinks it amazing that there are ghosts, especially ones so friendly. As they head further down, Mildred questions Neville eagerly about the other spirits wandering Hogwarts grounds. He tells her about each House ghost – the Friar Rogers of Hufflepuff, Sir Nick of Gryffindor, the Bloody Baron of Slytherin and the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw – and of the other more infamous patrons, like Moaning Myrtle and their resident poltergeist, Peeves.

“Why not banish him?” Miss Hardbroom asks.

Neville pauses at the top of a moving staircase, eyeing the route set out before them before leading them back up and down a different corridor.

“He’s loyal to the school, I suppose,” Neville replies after some thought. “I mean, he’s all for havoc and trouble, but he can be useful. Especially after last year,” Neville sniggers to himself.

“What happened last year?” Mildred asks.

Neville glances at Miss Hardbroom, fidgeting before slowly replying, “You’ll find out more stuff later, if you ask around, but basically, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher post is cursed. Teachers only ever last a year. Last year, we had Umbridge and…and she was evil.” His hands move together, thumb rubbing against the back of his palm.

Mildred, unable to help herself, finds herself staring at the scarring on the back of her hand, tilting her head sideways as she realises it’s not just an old burn or graze.

“Neville,” she starts, stomach suddenly sick, “why do you have writing on the back of your hand?”

Neville is quick to tuck his hand in his pocket, but it doesn’t erase what Mildred saw. They meet eyes and he gives her a grim smile. He says one word.

“Detention.”

* * *

Legs curled up beneath her, Mildred leans into the tall sofa back, arms tucked into her sides, fists clenched. Miss Hardbroom sits at the other end of the velvet seat, hands placed primly on her lap. For the first time in a while, Mildred notices she’s wearing nail varnish – purple nail varnish, even, rather than black or dark green.

 _I suppose it looks black from a distance,_ she thinks cloudily, still mulling over what HB had just told her. _I’m not going to get to go home until Halloween. I might still not be able to get home, even then – but neither will Miss Hardbroom._

Heart aching, Mildred slowly uncurls her legs, scooting closer to the uniform potions mistress. Miss Hardbroom, with unblinking eyes, watches her move inch by inch, not doing a thing to stop her. Mildred, however, isn’t completely idiotic. While she might want to hug her saviour, usually, this is _Miss Hardbroom._ Instead, she settles with their legs touching, bundling her arms around her own torso in a facsimile of an embrace.

“What happens if we can’t go home, Miss Hardbroom?” Mildred asks, quiet voice echoing in the silence of Miss Hardbroom’s new office.

“…then we shall stay here.” Miss Hardbroom eventually speaks, nudging her imperceptibly with her knee in slight reciprocation. “If things become too dangerous for my liking, then I shall move us to another location. I _will_ keep you safe, Mildred – which leads me to another matter. Do you know why young witches are given a familiar, Miss Hubble?”

Mildred shakes her head. “Maud told me once,” she admits, “but I can’t remember.”

“You would have learnt this year, anyway,” Miss Hardbroom says, “among other things. I’m glad your birthday is in April, rather than shortly around the corner. If it were, life would become disastrous for you.”

A frown forms on Mildred’s face, her brows knitting together, “Why?”

“Witches have familiars to balance their magic. Living creatures can act as agents of stabilisation – as can wizards staves and _wands_ ,” Miss Hardbroom purses her lips tightly. “I, unlike you, am old enough and wise enough to control my own magic without the presence of my cat. You, however, are not.”

“I have to get a new cat?” Mildred exclaims, horrified by the prospect. She claws at her chest, imagining feeling so connected to a cat that isn’t Tabby. “No, Miss Hardbroom, please-”

“Silence!” Miss Hardbroom hisses, rolling her eyes with a huff. “Wait until I am _finished_ , Miss Hubble. I would not be so cruel as to introduce a new familiar to you, especially seeing as it would be eventually left behind here, when we left.”

Then, from the sleeve of her dress, Miss Hardbroom produces a long, silver wand engraved with runes and a flowing design, twisting around and around till it reaches the tip. In her grasp, it begins glowing a soft white, a twinkling moon with stars glittering beside it appearing at the tip. She scowls almost immediately, the moon disappearing immediately but the stars taking longer to fade.

“This is my wand, from when I was a teenager,” Miss Hardbroom admits, somewhat grudgingly. “My parents were worried about me. My magic was like yours – stronger than it seemed. Morgana was not enough to help me keep it even. Until we return, you are to use _this._ ”

Her voice drips with distain, but Mildred is far from horrified anymore. She reaches out for it, fascinated. Miss Hardbroom gladly lets her take it, watching as Mildred feels it out with her magic, grinning at the stars that appear, the moon that materialises not just an outline, but almost opaque with magic. Mildred feels _fluid_ now, like her magic is pouring through a tiny spout rather than exploding out of her.

Waving it a little, Mildred giggles as white sparks trail behind it.

“I see you’re _agreeable_ to this arrangement,” Miss Hardbroom murmurs, watching her. Mildred nods, lowering the wand, forcibly cutting off her magic from leaking in through the receptacle. Mildred swears Miss Hardbroom looks impressed for a moment, after the wand has stopped glowing. “Good. Very good.”

“How do I use it?” Mildred questions.

“The same way you use magic – just only use it when needed,” Miss Hardbroom warns, “I won’t have you becoming dependent on it. A wand is a tool. You’re perfectly capable of using magic without it. I’m aware that you’ve used this world’s form of magic already _without_ a focus, so don’t make up any excuse pertaining to _their_ Craft, Mildred Hubble.”

Miss Hardbroom is more than sneering, by the end of her speech and the only thing Mildred can do is nod, tucking the wand away in her pocket, looking around.

“So, is this where you’ll be staying until we go home, then?”

Miss Hardbroom nods shortly, joining Mildred in her viewing of the room. It’s large and sparse, with two big desks, one in the middle of the room and the other to the side, by the door. Two bookcases stand empty beside a large window looking out onto the grounds, a forest visible in the distance past a strange sports field with three raised hoops. Other than a few filing cabinets and the sofa in front of the fireplace – the one decent piece of furniture – there’s nothing there that screams _Miss Hardbroom’s office._

“I hope your bedroom is nicer,” Mildred jokes, before Miss Hardbroom hums in agreement.

“It’s next door – I’ve been informed students cannot see nor pass through the entrance,” she says wryly. “I _wonder why._ ”

Mildred frowns, recognising sarcasm for once in her life, but not understanding the joke. “Why aren’t they allowed in?”

Miss Hardbroom glances at Mildred, pursing her lips. “I understand you’re young, Mildred. This, perhaps, is one of those things that you’ll figure out in your own time.”

Mildred continues to frown, but nods. “Okay. What now?”

“Now…now I make lesson-plans and a list of rules,” Miss Hardbroom rolls her eyes, “ _Joy of joys._ You’re welcome to stay here or you can go off and… _explore,_ I guess. It’s a large castle and I have no doubt you’ll get lost.”

Biting her lip, Mildred silently agrees, thinking it rather strange to see Miss Hardbroom actually have emotions and a personality that isn’t all _schoolwork, detention_ and _stop right there, Miss Hubble!_ At the same time, however, she finds herself wanting to stay.

“Can you tell me what you meant about my thirteenth birthday being in April?” Mildred questions. “Please, Miss Hardbroom.”

“…there is much you must learn that, I believe, might take precedence,” Miss Hardbroom says, before summoning a fancy ballpoint pen to hand, giving it to Mildred before then summoning her a book and a notepad. “Make notes – bullet-points,” she clarifies, when Mildred goes to ask what kind. “I’m going to briefly go over the stages of a witch’s life, or at least what my family did. I’ve been…going over information available to me, here and it is clear to me that those from ordinary families have resources inaccessible to you in this world. I aim to rectify this gap in your cultural knowledge.”

Mildred, who had glanced at the title of the book – _99 Ways to Charm Your Way to Greatness & 1 Way to Live By _– thinks that maybe, the book is meant to be some form of table rather than a reference here. HB isn’t the type to think spell-casting alone is a _way to live by_. Attentive with a furrowed brow, Mildred poises pen over paper, waiting for Miss Hardbroom’s word.

“First,” Miss Hardbroom starts and the two witches sit there, talking, teaching and learning until dinner.

Mildred learns that when a witch is born, all blood relatives can feel it, as blood is the tapestry you belong to. A newborn witch is taken out into the sunlight or the moonlight and blessed by the family gods – Miss Hardbroom was asked for protection by her mother from her namesake, Hekate, the Greek Titan of Magic, Crossroads, the Moon, the Night, Ghosts and Necromancy.

“I received it, I later found out,” Miss Hardbroom confides with her, magic stilling Mildred’s pen when she goes to write it down. “Nearly no-one does. Don’t tell _anyone_ I told you that I did.”

“I promise, I won’t, Miss Hardbroom!” Mildred swears.

Mildred then learns that the newborn witch is celebrated again at the nearest solstice or equinox celebration – an entirely different topic which Miss Hardbroom gladly explains. _Solstices and equinoxes are times of great magic, so much so that even the ordinary folk celebrate them._ Samhain is an especially auspicious holiday, known as _Halloween_ worldwide, but the eightfold holidays – and the cross-quarter days in between each, of which Samhain is one – are equally celebrated in the witching world and apparently, it is never a good idea to hold one above the other.

Miss Hardbroom says, “Like the cycle of life, the cycle of the year is just as important. You might pray to a specific deity such as my namesake, as I do and therefore, All Hallows Eve makes it easier to communicate your wishes, especially on matters of death and the like – but I would never _solely_ commune with my patron on Samhain.”

“Is it rude?” Mildred queries.

Miss Hardbroom smiles thinly, “To ensure I do not ensnare you in a theological discussion much too advanced for your age, I will assure you that _yes,_ it is rude.”

She learns that Mabon is the true Autumn holiday, a harvest thanksgiving and a pray-to-your-gods-to-live-through-winter party all in one. She learns that _Ēostre_ celebrations last from sunrise all the way through the day and the night, until the new dawn comes; that Midsummer for Miss Hardbroom was spent dancing around bonfires and singing songs in Greek with her family to their favoured pantheon; that children born on magical holidays are by far more powerful than their peers and that Mildred, Miss Hardbroom, Ethel Hallow and both the Cackle witches count among that number.

Mildred goes through pages of her notebook, often having to scribble very fast when she forgets to keep writing. It’s a mish-mash, hodgepodge of information about holidays and witches – how gifts can be given and taken away just as easily; how potions and spells can be strengthened a hundred-fold or weakened doubly so if cast upon the right – or _wrong_ – holiday; how even the most devout can pray ten times a day for their whole lives without seeing any result.

“Never rely on your gods,” Miss Hardbroom says. “They can be your source of comfort in dark times and the strength that holds you to your word – but they cannot be your last resort or thought.”

“It sounds religious,” Mildred says and Miss Hardbroom agrees: it is.

Mildred gets to think about that over lunch, imagining her new world and all of its inhabitants. How can _every_ witch and wizard pray to a god they don’t know exists? It makes Mildred frown as she mops up gravy with brown bread. She’s never been religious – fascinated with certain stories and portrayals of deities, certainly, but never religious.

 _You can have faith in yourself,_ Julie used to say when Mildred asked why they didn’t go to church. Now, Mildred thinks, _but gods are real for magical people._ Miss Hardbroom said that Hekate even gave her a _gift_ , when her parents asked for one. Mildred never had a problem with _not_ being religious – but here, knowing that her culture doesn’t have a concept of atheism _because gods are proven real_ , Mildred wonders if she should be.

After lunch, they talk more of physical things – or rather, metaphysical things, as Mildred coins it in her head, even though Miss Hardbroom says her magic is more a part of her than her limbs are.

“What happens to your magic cannot be repaired,” she tries to impress upon the young girl, obviously realising that Mildred isn’t seeing the connections like she is. “It is part of your soul and to give that away is an ultimate sacrifice. Don’t you wonder why we so worry for Esmerelda Hallow, now?”

“Worry?” Mildred questions, not having known they worried at all and this is when she learns something new.

“She has the magic of your family, of twelve generations of witches,” Miss Hardbroom says, reaching out in an uncharacteristic display. Her cool fingers lace through Mildred’s, strange and tight, drawing Mildred’s attention as she leans in closer. “You don’t understand and I want you to, desperately. Esmerelda has your mother’s magic. She has your grandmother’s magic and your great grandmother’s and on and on, for _twelve generations._ That is too much for one witch to hold, even if there is no-one more responsible to look after it.”

Mildred worries for Esme then, too.

“Why do you want _me_ to understand, though?” she pinpoints the other important angle of HB’s speech.

“Because…” Miss Hardbroom struggles to find the words, “because magic is of the _soul._ That was _taken_ from your family, even if it was willingly given. Parts of who they could have been rest inside Esme and it _will_ change her. Favourite foods, magical affinities- _how can I make you understand?_ ”

But now, Mildred thinks she does. She understands. She tries to imagine her mother – her mother if she didn’t like tea with three sugars and no milk or if she wore her hair up because she couldn’t stand the straggly ends on her back. _Part of her has been taken already,_ Mildred thinks with a sting of pain in her eyes, _and we’ll never know what._

Mildred shakes in thought, thinking _Aunt Moe might hate blue_ and _Nana might like women more than men like Mum does_. Miss Hardbroom squeezes her hand and she squeezes back, barely able to contain herself. She wants her mum – she wants a hug, to bury her head in her chest and hide away from the light.

“I want to go home,” Mildred sobs, shoulders shaking.

Miss Hardbroom shushes her quietly, squeezing her hand again. Her teacher is a quiet companion, the physical contact making everything so less awkward and Mildred thanks her for it. She cries a little, then wipes her face, shakily putting aside her notepad and the pen she’d borrowed.

“Would-” Miss Hardbroom halts, stumbling through her words, “would you- would you like to hear a tale told to young witches? To distract you? It’s a- a _grim_ story, but one that captivated me as a child. I used to tell it to my young brothers to make them sleep, before- before a death in the family.”

Miss Hardbroom stops speaking and Mildred wipes her face again, feeling as if Miss Hardbroom has told her too much. But she nods, kicking off her shoes and bringing her feet up underneath her, tucking away into the sofa. Miss Hardbroom doesn’t even tell her to stop. It nearly shocks Mildred out of her stupor to then see her straight-backed potions mistress similarly get more comfortable, summoning some strange creature she calls _Vera_ for tea.

Mildred is told fairytales over honey biscuits and lavender tea, that soothes her nerves and makes her more pliable. Mildred would care more, if Miss Hardbroom’s stories didn’t make her wonder and think so terribly hard.

“All the stories were histories, once,” Miss Hardbroom says before they even begin and it’s enough for Mildred to believe her – believing doesn’t take much for Millie, not when Miss Hardbroom is the one to tell her.

There’s first a story that makes _Red Riding Hood_ sound like a sham and _Rapunzel_ some confusing spin-off, Miss Hardbroom spinning a tale of a middle-aged witch who called upon a wolf pack to help her find her kidnapped mother and baby daughter, using her gods-given gifts to do so. Mildred listens, wide-eyed, somehow not surprised in the end that the parallel character to the woodcutter is another older witch from a feuding family, who mends the rift between their families and wins the heart of the witch’s aging mother – the grandmother of the young baby. What does surprise her is the original heroine’s death, leaving the two crones to raise their granddaughter together.

“But why did she have to die?” Mildred questions, plaintive, “She had her wolves kill the bad witch who took her family! Shouldn’t she win?”

“There was always going to be a price for the magic she wrought to destroy the tower and defeat her,” Miss Hardbroom answers, “Death comes to everyone – but often quicker to those who use magic for selfish gain.”

“Selfish gain?” Mildred’s mouth drops, appalled, “But her family!”

Miss Hardbroom shakes her head, “And what of their captor? Things could have been resolved peacefully or in a sanctioned duel – but no, the witch _murdered_ that woman and did it using her _gift_.” Miss Hardbroom pauses, before elaborating, “The gods would never allow such use of their magic, unless they were a particular brand of deity. It’s usually another facet of the stories I grew up with – the gods are respected and if not, there are consequences.”

Miss Hardbroom tells another story after that and it’s like _Pinocchio_ , except not, because it’s about magic and the consequences of bringing non-real people to life – the creature is burned far, far away from any ley lines by elders who know better, the ashes spread across ordinary land so it cannot come back in spirit form. Except in the story, exactly that happens despite all obstacles, the creature’s desperate soul passing across the Veil of Worlds to find their creator, a young witch who had only wanted a friend. She dies at the hands of that ‘friend’.

Mildred has forgotten what they were originally talking about by the time a knock comes, interrupting Miss Hardbroom in the middle of a new story about a wizard stealing a clutch of dragon eggs to give his sons familiars.

“…one moment,” Miss Hardbroom pauses, dissipating into mist as she – presumably – appears outside the door. Mildred hears faint strains of noise, before the door opens with magic and Miss Hardbroom motions her outside, alone, footsteps echoing away into silence. Scrambling to put her shoes back on, Mildred is quick as she can to join her, glancing down when she pulls to a stop, feeling magic tying her shoelaces up properly.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. “Thanks.”

Miss Hardbroom rolls her eyes – but there’s something of a smile pulling at her lips as they walk down the hallway.

“Where are we going?” Mildred questions, before her stomach rumbles… _oh._ “Is it dinnertime?”

“Yes,” HB states. “No more loose laces, Miss Hubble.”

Mildred contains a small laugh, one at her own expense as she shakes her head, “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”


End file.
